Bantam of the Opera

by Mary Daheim

  “You go first,” said Melissa to Judith.

  As concisely as possible Judith gave a rundown of the previous evening for both Melissa and Renie. “There’s nothing new so far this morning,” Judith concluded. “Mrs. Pacetti was able to take tea and toast; Schutzendorf bitched all the time he was polishing off the bratwurst; and Plunkett acts like he lost his anchor. Which I suppose he has. Tippy was sleeping in. I figure she can fend for herself or ask my cleaning woman to fix her something.”

  Melissa switched off the tape recorder she had brought along. “According to my police beat comrade at the Times, we can’t say for sure that Pacetti was poisoned with Strophanthin. We have to hedge and call it a ‘digitalis-like poison.’ But we can say that the empty vial was found on the buffet table. This is all new to me—I gather that homicide stories require a lot of dancing around, lest we impede the investigation, or worse yet, influence the jury if and when the case comes to trial.”

  “So dig us some dirt,” urged Renie, who had come to life at the sight of a crab and cheddar omelette accompanied by toast and hash brown potatoes.

  Melissa tilted her head to one side. “I feel like a fraud. I don’t know much about this cast of characters, really. That is, not much of recent note. One thing, though—” she paused to lift her eyebrows in a significant manner—“Pacetti and Garcia-Green had a torrid affair that lasted at least a couple of years. It was going on the last time Pacetti sang here, which is how I know about it.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Judith.

  “Oho!” breathed Renie.

  “Then they had a falling-out,” Melissa went on, “at La Scala in Milan. Bear in mind that Pacetti wasn’t the type to play around. Inez might have been the real thing for him. She’s had a half dozen lovers since then, the most recent being—get this—an honest-to-God Swiss brain surgeon. I don’t know what caused the breakup with Pacetti, but Inez is inclined to take lovers as the whim hits her. In any event, Mario was gone with the whim—so to speak.” Melissa wiggled her eyebrows again.

  “That explains the animosity with Mrs. Pacetti,” said Judith, dipping toast into one of her two fried eggs. “It also explains why Pacetti asked Inez to sing with him when he came here for his return engagement. They were lovers when he was here the first time.”

  Melissa nodded over her Belgian waffle. “Once the contracts were signed five, six years ago, they were stuck with each other. In fact, they did some other performances together after the rift, mainly in Europe.”

  “That must have galled Amina,” commented Renie. “I assume she knew if everybody else did.”

  “Oh, she knew—Inez makes no secret of her affairs,” responded Melissa. “But Signora Pacetti has her own way of coping with infidelity.”

  “Not poison, I hope,” said Judith.

  “Probably not,” replied Melissa as the waitress poured more coffee. “Tit, as they say, for tat.” She gave the cousins a sagacious smile. “Let’s say she enjoys a junket with Plunkett and let it go at that.”

  “Plunkett!” Judith was aghast.

  “Plunkett?” Renie was incredulous.

  “Plunkett,” repeated Melissa. “Yes, yes, I know he has no blood in his veins and his flesh is made of papier-mâché, but he’s so devoted. She made no bones about it in the slightly more broad-minded operatic circles of Europe. I would bet that Mrs. P. seduced him the minute she found out about Mario and Inez. Pacetti couldn’t get along without Plunkett—or he thought he couldn’t—and was in a bind. The truth of the matter is, he couldn’t have got along without Amina. She was always the driving force behind his career.”

  “Hey, hey,” said Renie, definitely on the alert now that the clock was edging toward ten. “How come Pacetti didn’t insist that his wife and his business manager knock it off? He was a feisty guy, after all.”

  “Feisty, but neurotic,” said Melissa, glancing at the clock. The small but crowded cafe still had patrons waiting in line at the door. “He probably couldn’t bear to think what might happen to him if he lost either Amina or Plunkett. He was terribly superstitious. He was first a tenor, second, a husband. He must have preferred to put up with the ménage à trois.”

  “Hmmmm.” Judith finished her last rasher of bacon. “So it’s been Amina and Winston all along. Does that mean Tippy de Caro isn’t anybody’s bimbo?”

  Melissa had folded her napkin and set it next to her empty plate. “Not that I know of. She’s just along for the ride. I’ve got to get back to the office if I want to have this story in by eleven.” She began to rummage in her handbag for lipstick and compact.

  Judith realized the meaning of Winston Plunkett’s apparent indifference to Tippy. She was precisely what she was supposed to be—an assistant. Or was she? Judith still felt unsettled in her mind when it came to Ms. de Caro.

  “Other than that old news, I don’t have much,” said Melissa, skillfully negotiating her wide mouth with bright crimson. “I feel like a real washout, but then we’re pretty isolated out here when it comes to hot gossip from the opera world. The only recent tales I’ve been told are about Pacetti’s backing out of two or three performances this past spring. That’s not like him, but tenors are the most unpredictable species in the world. Otherwise, his career was going great guns, especially with that big new recording contract. This must be a terrible blow to old Schutzendorf. I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to him at the opera house. They should have sold him two seats. I was pushed so far over that I was practically sitting in Mrs. Dunkowitz’s lap.”

  Renie swallowed the last of her tomato juice. “Say—when did Bruno show up that night?”

  Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know. He was already there when I arrived about five minutes before curtain time. He looked as if he was pretty well settled in, which, given his girth and garments, would take awhile.”

  Judith had a sudden inspiration. “What do you know about Justin Kerr?”

  Melissa had picked up her bill and risen to her feet. “Justin Kerr?” She tapped her temple. “I heard him sing here last season. Very promising, good reviews out of San Francisco in the spring, raves from Salzburg last August. I should interview him in the next couple of days. We’ll find out what he’s made of tomorrow night when he takes over for Pacetti. He’s on the spot.”

  The cousins agreed. After Melissa left, Judith and Renie had one last cup of coffee. “Extramarital affair or not,” mused Judith, “I don’t see Amina killing the goose that laid the golden egg for Plunkett’s sake. Especially if Mario wouldn’t stop them from carrying on.”

  “Or Plunkett doing ditto,” agreed Renie, then gave a little shake of her head. “Wait—maybe that’s more likely. Plunkett might be a dark horse, a snake in the grass, whatever. With Mario out of the way, he could have Amina all to himself—why, I couldn’t say except that Melissa made it sound as if he were her sex slave or some damned thing—and collect the royalties and insurance and the rest of the Pacetti fortune.”

  Judith nodded. “That would make more sense. But I can’t see Plunkett harming a fly, though he supposedly ties them. As for Inez, she wouldn’t wait six years for revenge. Besides, Melissa made it sound as if Inez dumped Mario rather than the other way around. I wonder why, under the circumstances, Inez called on Amina?”

  “To crow?” suggested Renie. “You know, to rub it in that Pacetti really loved her instead of Amina.”

  “Maybe.” Judith couldn’t discount the idea, but she wouldn’t think much of Inez if that had been her intent. “Let’s not leave Justin Kerr out of this. With Pacetti going sticks up, he gets his big chance.”

  Renie, however, scoffed. “If this were La Scala or the Met, I’d say maybe. But international reputations aren’t made in this town. Singers are strange, and tenors are the strangest of all, but the worst I’d expect from Justin Kerr is a bit of germ warfare. You know, to knock Pacetti out of a performance or two.”

  “That makes sense,” Judith agreed, “unless the poison was meant merely to make Pacetti sick. If K
err’s involved, he might have misjudged the dosage. It seems to me that poisoners have to know something about the substances they use.” Noting that the waiting line was finally gone, she guiltily got to her feet. “We’ve been hogging this table long enough. I better go check on the usual suspects back at the B&B, coz. What are you up to today?”

  “Press check at the printer on the cancer research center brochure, 1:00 P.M.” Renie grabbed her purse. “Visit our mothers. Do two loads of laundry. Fix dinner for Tony and Anne—Tom’s working. Wait for Bill to call me tonight. I haven’t talked to him since he and Joe left.”

  “I’m surprised Joe didn’t phone last night,” said Judith as they waited in line at the cash register behind two college students. “I thought he might be worried about me. You know, killer at large and all that.”

  Renie grinned at her cousin. “He figures you’re used to it. Besides, he’s got Woody playing guardian angel.”

  “True.” The cousins went through the ritual of paying their bills and getting change. Outside, the sun was bright, the sky virtually cloudless. There was definitely a nip in the autumn air. Judith shielded her eyes as she sighted her blue Japanese compact parked on the far side of the lot. “We could get a frost before Halloween. I wonder if we’ll have snow this winter.”

  “Remember six years ago when we had that blizzard on Armistice Day?” Renie hurried to catch up with her cousin’s longer strides. “It was so hot right around Tom’s birthday in October that I almost croaked, and then a month later we were up to our knees in snow. The schools were closed for a week. Bill and I walked to the opera. Hey,” said Renie as they reached the car, “that was Butterfly, with Pacetti. We got a cab home, but the driver refused to come down our street and let us off up at the corner. I damned near slid on my butt all the way from…”

  “Whoa!” Judith’s head bobbed up. She stared at Renie across the roof of the car. “Snow? Armistice Day? November?”

  “Right,” replied Renie, wishing Judith would use the power locks to let her in the car. “You were still living with Dan out on Thurlow Street in that dump with the rats in the walls and the hookers using your front porch for a message drop.”

  “Are you sure Pacetti sang here in November?” Judith was leaning on the roof, her eyes narrowed at Renie.

  “Yes! Hey, let me in, I can afford the fare! Next time I’ll bring my own car!”

  Judith finally complied. Once inside with their seat belts fastened, Judith turned to her cousin. “Then somebody’s lying. Amina Pacetti has mentioned the beautiful flowers here. Not once, but twice. She specifically referred to the rhododendrons.”

  Renie’s brown eyes grew round as understanding dawned. “Rhodies—April, May, even June. But never in November. What do you think?”

  Judith started the engine. “I don’t know. But the Pacettis made an unpublicized visit to our fair city somewhere along the line. I wonder when. And I wonder why.”

  With her nose in the air, Phyliss Rackley was sweeping off the back walk. “I won’t talk to that awful man,” she said haughtily, her eyes darting in Skjoval Tolvang’s direction.

  Judith looked over at the Swedish carpenter, who was ripping old boards out of the toolshed and hurling them onto the grass with the vigor of a man half his age. “What’s wrong?” asked Judith, not really wanting to know.

  Phyliss led the way back inside the house as Judith waved feebly at Tolvang. “He took the Lord’s name in vain just because he hit his thumb with a hammer. Then he cursed again when he dropped some of those big boards on his foot. And after part of the old roof fell on his head, he cried out with the most blasphemous words I ever heard. I really think the man is possessed.” Phyliss gave the broom a severe shake, as if she wished it were Tolvang’s neck.

  “He’s a fine carpenter,” said Judith lamely.

  “The Lord was a fine carpenter,” Phyliss asserted piously. “I’m sure He never used language like that.”

  Hanging her green jacket on a peg in the hallway between the kitchen and the pantry, Judith followed Phyliss into the kitchen. For all of the cleaning woman’s complaints about Tolvang, she seemed to have the morning well in hand. Hoping to divert Phyliss from further attacks on Skjoval Tolvang, Judith praised her efforts.

  “Well, thank you very much,” said Phyliss, preening a bit. “I’ve just about got this floor done for the day. Not that it’s easy for a woman of my age and poor constitution to keep up such a pace, but the Good Lord gives me extra strength to compensate for the crosses He’s made me bear. Like bunions. You wouldn’t believe how they ached when we had that rain. Praise the Lord for the sunshine. Even my lumbago is better. At least some,” she added grudgingly.

  “I’m glad,” said Judith, starting to rewind her answering machine. As usual, there were calls for reservations, three from out of state, two from the other side of the mountains. Judith consulted her calendar. “I’ll sure be happy when this bunch is gone,” she said, more to herself than to Phyliss.

  “Well, you got rid of one of ’em,” the cleaning woman remarked, getting the hand vacuum out of the hall cupboard.

  “I hardly intended to do it that way,” Judith responded wryly. “Murder isn’t my idea of canceling a guest stay.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that Eye-talian singer,” said Phyliss, checking to make sure the vacuum cleaner belt was in place. “I mean the slut.”

  “Slut?” Judith stared at Phyliss. “Who?”

  Phyliss made an exasperated face at her employer. “The harlot. With her short skirts and tight clothes that would tempt a preacher. Skippy? Bippy? Trippy?”

  Judith blocked Phyliss’s exit to the back stairs. “Tippy? What do mean, Phyliss? Where did she go?”

  Phyliss shrugged, sausage curls bouncing. “How do I know? I went up to tell her it was the last call for breakfast, waited half an hour, didn’t see her come down, decided she’d gone out, went back to do up her room—and she was gone. Cleared out, luggage, everything. She must have left while I was in the basement doing the wash. Good riddance, I’d say.” Phyliss barreled past Judith, using the vacuum as a wedge. “That lady was no lady, I tell you. She was a tramp.”

  Even though Phyliss had disappeared up the stairs, Judith still stared.

  Winston Plunkett was in the upstairs hallway, using the house phone. He had turned the wicker settee and matching end table into a makeshift office. Judith waited for him to finish his call, which he was conducting in what sounded like flawless French.

  “Paris,” he said five minutes later, when he had put down the phone. “It’s evening over there, but I’ve had trouble reaching the director of the Paris Opera. Fortunately, I caught him just as he was leaving for dinner.”

  Judith sat down next to Plunkett, who seemed surprised at her apparent attempt at intimacy. Mrs. Pacetti’s room, however, was a mere eight feet across the hall, and Judith didn’t want to risk being overheard.

  “Mr. Plunkett, do you know where Tippy is?”

  Plunkett’s face was blank. “No. I assumed she was overly tired and had slept in.” He glanced at the door to Tippy’s room which was at a right angle to Amina’s. “She’s not in there?”

  Judith shook her head, then got up and went to open the door. Plunkett followed her. “See?” said Judith. “Everything seems to be gone, just as Mrs. Rackley told me.”

  To make sure, Judith checked the closet, the bureau, the dressing table, and under the bed. Phyliss hadn’t yet finished doing up the room, but it was cleaned out as far as Tippy de Caro’s possessions were concerned.

  “Why…I’m flummoxed!” declared Plunkett. “She never said a word to me! I can’t believe she left like this, without giving notice. Do you think she’s been arrested?” Something akin to panic seemed to pass over Plunkett’s long face.

  Judith supposed that his reaction could be considered normal under the circumstances. But she thought he was wrong. If Tippy had been charged, or even taken downtown for questioning, Woody would have let Judith know.

/>   “I think she left under her own power,” said Judith. “Where’s Schutzendorf?”

  Plunkett looked uncomfortable. “Uh…we had a bit of a dustup. He insisted on using the phone, too, but I gather he hadn’t asked your permission. I had,” the business manager went on with the air of a schoolboy who has received a special favor from his teacher, “so I told him he’d better find another phone somewhere else. I suspect he went down to the bottom of the Hill to one of the business establishments that has a pay phone.”

  “I see.” Judith nudged a bureau drawer that wasn’t fully closed, then went back into the hall. She stopped to knock on Mrs. Pacetti’s door. Edna Fiske appeared, holding a blood pressure kit. Beyond the nurse, Judith could see Amina, sitting up in bed with more magazines and yet another flowing peignoir. She did not seem to be overcome with grief.

  “How’s the patient?” Judith asked as Plunkett hovered behind her.

  “Stable,” replied Edna in hushed tones. “She was quite distressed last night. I had to give her a sedative. That was really dreadful news. In my opinion, poisoning people is unacceptable behavior.” Her severe look indicated she blamed Judith for such social aberrations.

  “It’s pretty rotten,” Judith agreed, not wanting to get sidetracked by Edna’s moralizing. “Have you or Mrs. Pacetti seen Tippy de Caro this morning?”

  Again, Edna looked disapproving. “I haven’t.” She turned to Mrs. Pacetti and repeated Judith’s question. Amina glanced up from her magazine, gave a slight shake of her head, and again buried her nose in the pages of haute couture.

  “Thanks,” said Judith, starting to back away. But both Edna and Plunkett were on the move, almost colliding with each other as the nurse came through the door and the business manager tried to enter.

  “Excuse me, so sorry,” exclaimed Plunkett. “I just wanted a word with Mrs. Pacetti. If that’s permissible, Nurse?”