Bantam of the Opera

by Mary Daheim

  “What’s that?” asked Tippy, pointing to an open tin of smoked mussels.

  Judith told her. Tippy wiggled her red eyebrows. “Like clams, aren’t they? We have lots of good seafood back home in Boston. Especially lobster.”

  “How did you and Mr. Plunkett make out today?” Judith asked, then realized the question was no doubt too aptly phrased.

  But Tippy didn’t seem to notice. “Fine. We went to a sporting goods store. He bought more fishing flies. I got a hot pink Spandex leotard. Here, let me help,” she began putting crackers around the edge of Judith’s bone china serving plate.

  Seeing Tippy perform a domestic chore jogged Judith’s memory. “Say, Tippy, did you get to be a super in the performance the other night? I thought I recognized you dressed as a maid.” Under cover of emptying the mussels onto the plate, Judith tried to catch Tippy’s reaction.

  But Tippy, as usual, seemed unconcerned. “Yes, that was me. It’s fun. I got to be a courtier once in Rigoletto and I wore the most fabulous green brocade dress. I was supposed to be part of a mob in Andrea Cheniér at the Met next month, but I guess I won’t be doing that now. The French Revolution will have to go on without me.” Her eyes widened and her mouth curved into a huge grin. “Hey! That’s funny! Do you get it? The French Rev…”

  “Right,” said Judith quickly. “That’s good, that’s great, that’s…hilarious. How do you manage to get a job like that?”

  Tippy gave a little shrug. She was wearing a huge bronze sweater that apparently was intended to fall off one shoulder. The gesture made it fall off of both. Hooking a thumb into the garment, Tippy hitched it back up. “Mr. Plunkett arranged it for me. Most of the supers are volunteers, but they do have to rehearse. I’d gone through my stage directions at the dress rehearsal Friday.”

  Judith’s expression exuded interest. “What did you get to do on stage the other night? You don’t actually sing, do you?”

  “Not in Traviata,” said Tippy, resealing the box of crackers. “I just fiddled around with the stuff on the table. You know, like I was preparing for the guests. But I did get to sing in the Rigoletto chorus. That was neat.”

  Judith was impressed. “You must be talented,” she said. “They wouldn’t let you do that—even if you worked for Mr. Pacetti—if you didn’t have a good voice.”

  Tippy shrugged again, as the sweater slipped another notch. For the first time, Judith noticed a wary spark in the other woman’s eyes before she looked away. “Oh—I guess. My family’s kind of musical. I mean, we all took piano lessons and stuff like that. I paid for half of mine by working at the corner drugstore. You got to know a lot about guys that way. You know, which ones bought what contraceptives. Shall I put this plate out in the living room?”

  Judith had the feeling that Tippy wasn’t so anxious to help as she was to avoid further questions. Perhaps Tippy de Caro was embarrassed about her background. Judith suspected that she came from a working-class Boston family whose roots probably didn’t quite measure up to the elite company in which she now found herself. But at least, thought Judith as she checked on the steaks, the de Caros had been able to afford piano lessons…

  Her reverie was cut short by the phone. Woody Price’s pleasant voice came over the wire. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, sounding not quite as restrained as usual. “I’ve been assigned to the Pacetti investigation.”

  Judith was glad Woody couldn’t see the smug expression on her face. “Really? I am surprised!”

  “Are you?” There was an ironic note in Woody’s voice.

  “Well, sure,” said Judith smoothly. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with your…other duties. I mean, the baby probably won’t be here for at least a couple of weeks and maybe it’ll help keep your mind off of worrying about Sondra.”

  “Maybe.” His tone was now noncommittal. Indeed, he paused, apparently waiting for Judith to make a remark. When she didn’t, he finally spoke again. “Mrs. Flynn—that is, Judith—aren’t you going to ask me something? Anything?”

  “Huh?” Judith frowned into the receiver.

  “I’ve been assigned to the case.”

  “Oh!” Judith clutched at the phone, the significance of his words sinking in. “You mean—it is murder?” she breathed.

  “That’s right,” said Woody. “We got the stomach contents analysis back about half an hour ago. Mr. Pacetti died from an overdose of a digitalis-like poison. No doubt the Strophanthin that was in the empty vial we found onstage at the opera house.”

  Judith sucked in her breath. Now she was surprised, not by Woody’s assignment to the investigation, but by the fact she had never doubted that Pacetti had been murdered.

  Yes, a lot of people died from natural causes. But somehow she had known all along that Mario Pacetti wasn’t one of them.

  TEN

  FOR THE NEXT four hours, while waiting for Woody Price to show up, Judith felt edgy. Skjoval Tolvang had delivered the lumber and other materials he would need for the remodeling, torn out what remained of the old roof, and insisted that Judith remove whatever stored items she wanted to save. Otherwise, Tolvang would haul everything off to the dump in his pickup truck. Judith had spent almost two hours in the rain and wind sorting through her belongings, the most important of which was Dan McMonigle’s ashes. With a grimace, she moved the boot box in which they rested to the basement. She would deal with Dan later. For now, she had to worry about the possibility that a killer might be living under her roof.

  Schutzendorf and Tippy went off to dinner together, but Winston Plunkett remained at Hillside Manor. He spent most of the time with Amina Pacetti, much to the consternation of Edna Fiske, R.N.

  “Too much stimulation isn’t good for the patient,” complained Edna when she brought Mrs. Pacetti’s dinner tray back to the kitchen. “Moderation is the key to recovery.”

  “Winston Plunkett isn’t exactly a whirling dervish of excitement,” Judith pointed out, rinsing off plates before putting them in the dishwasher. “I’m sure they need to discuss the details of Mr. Pacetti’s funeral. Not to mention unfinished business. There must be a lot of that, given the kind of career the man had. Inez Garcia-Green is another matter, but at least she didn’t stay long.”

  Edna gave Judith a patronizing look. “That’s true, but I must tell you that Mrs. Pacetti wasn’t in the least distressed as you reported to me. Quite the contrary, she was both moved and comforted by the visit.”

  Judith managed to keep her jaw from dropping. Unless Mediterranean culture was far different than Judith realized, angry high-pitched screaming bouts didn’t usually signify camaraderie. But it wouldn’t do any good to argue with Edna. It occurred to Judith that for some reason, Amina Pacetti wanted everyone to think she and Inez Garcia-Green were on good terms.

  By eight-thirty, Skjoval Tolvang called it quits for the day, clattering out of the driveway with a load of junk that Judith was certain she’d need desperately within the next forty-eight hours.

  “I should have had a yard sale,” she told Renie over the phone. “At least I might have made some money off of that stuff.”

  “Like what?” countered Renie. “I’ve been in your toolshed, coz. It’s like our so-called storage room. What did you have in there besides Dan? A broken bicycle pump, ten dozen cracked geranium pots, and your father’s air raid warden’s hat?”

  “I might have got three dollars for the hat alone,” said Judith. “You never gave the toolshed a close look. I had treasures in there that would make an antique collector drool.”

  “That old crap made me want to puke,” retorted Renie. “Stop whining, you never throw anything away. You’re turning into your mother.”

  Judith was aghast. “Coz! What a horrid thing to say!”

  Renie was unrepentant. “It’s true. We all turn into our mothers. It’s one of the things I love telling Anne. Then she wants to puke. Just wait thirty or forty years, I tell her. She’ll see. So will you. Ha-ha.”

  Judith felt
it was more likely that she would turn into Aunt Deb while Renie became Gertrude’s clone. Each niece’s personality was more like that of her aunt than her mother, and both cousins were aware of it. But Renie was right about Judith’s reluctance to throw away any item that held the least hint of sentiment or nostalgia. Judith decided to shut up.

  “Why don’t you come over?” she asked Renie, switching subjects. “Woody’s due around nine.”

  But Renie was already in her bathrobe, eating a tub of microwave popcorn. “Give him a hug from me and call after he leaves, okay?”

  Judith agreed she would. Still on edge, she puttered around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, wiping up the floor, wondering how Woody’s announcement would affect the other inhabitants of Hillside Manor. Schutzendorf and Tippy were still out. Mrs. Pacetti was resting, as usual. Plunkett had finally retreated to his room, presumably to work. He had requested the prolonged use of the B&B’s telephone line, assuring Judith that he would use his credit card to charge long-distance calls. To Judith’s knowledge, he had not eaten, unless he’d shared some of Amina Pacetti’s dinner tray.

  By 9:00 P.M., Judith was downright jumpy. She had stayed on the main floor to wait for Woody, instead of going up to the family quarters as she usually did in the evening. Sitting in the front parlor with a snappy little fire in the grate, she found she couldn’t concentrate on the spy thriller she was reading. Maybe she needed new reading glasses. On the other hand, she’d scarcely heard a note of the Brahms violin concerto that played on her CD. All she could think of was that Mario Pacetti had been poisoned. Why? Who stood to gain? Amina Pacetti had mentioned insurance, but surely her gifted husband was worth more to her alive than dead. Plunkett had lost an employer. Schutzendorf had been left without a star tenor. And Tippy seemed out of it in more ways than one. But she had been on the stage of the opera house Saturday night. Had someone placed her there for a devious purpose? Winston Plunkett had arranged her role as a supernumerary. Had he somehow manipulated her to plant the poison in Mario Pacetti’s champagne glass? How? Why? Judith’s brain whirled ’round and ’round. Inez Garcia-Green. Justin Kerr. Who else among the cast and crew? Except for Maestro Dunkowitz and Sydney Haines, Judith didn’t even know who the rest of them were. The list of suspects could reach as many as a hundred.

  The doorbell buzzed. Judith jumped. It must be Woody Price. She hurried into the entry hall.

  So caught up in mulling over the mystery was Judith that she had not noticed that the wind had died down and the rain had all but stopped. The sidewalk gleamed under the streetlights; the night air smelled of damp earth. Woody Price stood on the front porch with Officers Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle flanking him. Judith felt a sense of relief wash over her. She greeted the trio warmly, leading them into the parlor.

  Woody’s top priority was to speak with Mrs. Pacetti. He went upstairs while Judith made hot cocoa. Perez and Doyle had downed half of theirs before Woody returned, his usual composure ruffled.

  “She’s not taking it well,” he said. “Neither is the business manager. He came racing in after she let out the first shriek.”

  Judith nodded in sympathy. “I could hear her in the kitchen. I assume the nurse has things under control?”

  “More or less. She and Plunkett are trying to cope.” Woody picked up his mug and sipped thoughtfully. “Their reactions seem genuine. But you never know.”

  Corazon Perez, a petite young woman of Filipino ancestry, shook her head. “Murderers can be so cunning. I’ve only worked as liaison with homicide for a year, but I’ve already run into a couple who practically passed out when they learned—or pretended to learn—that their victim was dead. I think their instincts for self-preservation give them the ability to make themselves believe they’re innocent.”

  Ted Doyle’s short chin bobbed up and down. “That’s right. In this business, you have to assume that everybody is lying. Not just the perps, either, but the victims and the witnesses.” His steady hazel eyes met Judith’s gaze. “Your husband taught me that, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Great,” breathed Judith, thinking that maybe she didn’t realize how cynical Joe’s view of humankind really was.

  “We’ve got one thing figured out,” said Woody, who was looking a bit tired around the eyes. No doubt he’d put in a very long day. Judith felt vaguely guilty. “Mr. Pacetti had his own champagne glass. So did Inez Garcia-Green. It seems that singers in their league don’t want to risk picking up somebody else’s germs—catch a cold or a sore throat or whatever. Pacetti’s was monogrammed. Garcia-Green’s had a gold rim.”

  Judith leaned forward in the chair. “Were the contents analyzed?”

  Woody’s expression conveyed chagrin. “Someone had taken the glass away and rinsed it out. Plunkett’s assistant, I think, but we’ll have to ask her. When do you expect Ms. de Caro and Mr. Schutzendorf to get back from dinner?”

  Judith had no idea. They hadn’t left until almost seven-thirty. “How,” Judith inquired, trying to re-create the scene in her mind, “could someone have slipped the poison into the champagne glass without being seen?”

  “There’s a lot going on in Act I,” replied Woody. “All eyes are on the principal singers, as a rule. And, as far as we know, the Strophanthin could have been put into Pacetti’s glass before the curtain went up. There’s even more confusion then.”

  Judith considered Woody’s statement briefly. “But surely someone would have noticed if say, Mrs. Pacetti or Plunkett or somebody who didn’t belong onstage had been out there before the performance?”

  “Not necessarily.” Woody set down his mug and stretched his legs. “They had a right to be backstage. Pacetti is such a big star that the members of his entourage wouldn’t be questioned. They could probably do cartwheels in the orchestra pit and nobody would criticize.”

  “I’m not saying they’d get in trouble for mooching around,” responded Judith, “but that they’d be noticed. Surely if Inez Garcia-Green went out before the curtain went up, her own entourage would see her.”

  “They did.” Woody gave Judith an ironic look. “She was checking on her own glass, making sure it was where she could reach it at the right moment. We’ve just come from her suite at the Cascadia. She readily admits she was there. But of course she denies she poisoned Pacetti and to prove the point, she passed out.”

  “Oh.” Judith fingered her chin. “What about Sydney Haines? He doesn’t come on until Act II.”

  Corazon Perez responded in her perky manner. “Ted and I talked to Haines—he’s at the Cascadia, too—but he didn’t arrive at the opera house until after Pacetti went off in the ambulance. It makes him nervous to wait around until after the first intermission for his cue in the second act.” She glanced at Woody for confirmation. “That’s where he sings his big piece, right?”

  “That’s right,” said Woody. “The baritone’s moment in the sun, ‘Di Provenza il mar.’ It’s the kind of thing that would make any singer nervous. Tenors have a habit of trying to steal the scene from the baritone because the aria’s so beautiful. I heard about a performance years ago where the tenor actually came up to the baritone in the middle of the aria and made bunny ears behind his head.”

  Judith, Corazon, and Ted all laughed, temporarily lightening the mood. “What about Mrs. Pacetti?” inquired Judith when their mirth had subsided. “Did she go onstage?”

  “I don’t know,” said Woody. “She wasn’t in much shape to give out information just now. If she did, nobody’s mentioned it yet. But we’ve got a lot of interrogating to do.”

  Getting up to throw another log on the fire, Judith remembered to tell Woody and the others about Tippy de Caro’s role as a super. Woody was making a note when Judith heard the front door open.

  Bruno Schutzendorf did not look pleased to see the three police officers. Tippy, however, expressed excitement. “You mean, like foul play?” she asked in a breathless voice. “Wow! Are we suspects?”

  Woody, looking far more pained than amuse
d, assured her that they were. “Everyone is, I’m afraid. I’ll have to ask you not to leave town for a few days.”

  “Vat?” exploded Schutzendorf, getting very red in the face and yanking off his snap-brimmed houndstooth cap. “Impossible! I have much business to conduct, and not in this place of rain and fish!”

  Woody, who was an even six feet, had to look up at Schutzendorf, but he didn’t yield an inch. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ll try not to inconvenience you any longer than we have to. But there are questions we must ask. Routine, of course, but necessary.”

  Schutzendorf started to glare at Woody, thought better of it, and began to simmer down. “Of course, of course. I shall cooperate with your police procedures. But I know nothing,” he added, now almost benign. “I am merely…Schutzendorf!”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Woody, wincing as the German accidentally spit in his eye. “Perhaps we could go out into the living room where there are more chairs?” Woody cast an appealing look at Judith. She started to lead the others out of the parlor, but Woody asked Officer Perez and Tippy to remain. When Judith, Schutzendorf, and Ted Doyle had made their exit, Woody closed the door to the living room. Obviously, he was going to conduct his investigation in private. Judith was a little disappointed.

  “Terrible, terrible, terrible!” muttered Schutzendorf, pacing the length of the living room from the French doors to the grandfather clock. “What of Frau Pacetti? Is she in shock?”

  “She’s pretty upset, I gather,” Judith replied from her place on the sofa. “So is Mr. Plunkett.”

  Mr. Plunkett, however, appeared reasonably composed as he entered the living room. Although his long face was drawn and his tie was askew, he otherwise appeared to have his emotions under control. He took one look at Officer Doyle and frowned.