Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  The kettle’s shrill whistle brought him back downstairs. A devotee of green tea, he opted instead this night for orange spice Rooibos, a recent favorite. Because he was tall, and the ceilings were low, he moved through the old house in a perpetual slight stoop, although it actually wasn’t necessary. The habit of a tall man.

  But he straightened once through a door off the living room, next to a wood-burning stove that he used in winter to help heat the house. The room he now entered was large and had twelve-foot-high ceilings, multiple recessed halogen lights, a Mexican stone floor covered by multicolored area rugs, and an elaborate built-in desk, its shiny black surface stretching nine feet beneath a series of narrow shelves that held an assortment of office items and small, framed pictures.

  The wall opposite the desk, and a second wall spanning the length of the room and broken only by a large window, held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, their upper shelves reached by a library ladder with wheels at the bottom, and whose top ran along a metal trolley. Every inch of the shelves was filled with books.

  A computer with a twenty-six-inch monitor sat on the desk. Built into the wall of bookshelves behind was a fifty-two-inch flat-panel TV. Next to it was the control unit for a Bose surround-sound system, its multiple, tiny cube speakers discreetly nestled in the room’s corners. The subwoofer sat on the floor beneath the desk.

  Pawkins had personally designed this addition to the carriage house. He’d had to obtain a zoning variance, which took an inordinate amount of time as well as money for a local attorney, but once the legalities had been settled, his vision of the new space was made reality by an old-school contractor whose attention to detail and dedication to quality matched Pawkins’ needs. Construction had been completed a little more than a year ago. Since then, it had become his refuge, his cave where he could enjoy his music, read his books, and conduct what business came his way.

  He opened a tall cabinet in which five hundred CD recordings were stored, arranged alphabetically by artist, and retrieved the one he sought, a London recording of Richard Strauss’ Der Rosenkavalier, with the Vienna Philharmonic conducted by George Solti, and featuring the American soprano Helen Donath, whose airy voice struck a particular chord with Pawkins, whether Donath was playing Sophie in the Strauss masterpiece or Eva in Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.

  He used dimmers to lower the lights, started the CD, and settled in his office chair, one of his cats, a Chartreux who’d adopted him years ago, on his lap. As the rich, melodic music swelled to fill the room, he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and reviewed what had happened that evening. After a few minutes of this introspection, he gently pushed the cat, Wolfgang, to the floor and started making notes on a yellow legal pad. The phone rang. He winced and stared at the receiver. The recorded opera had reached an especially pleasing section and he was loath to stop it. The phone kept ringing; the answering machine next to it had been turned off earlier that day and he’d forgotten to activate it. A button on the remote brought the stereo volume down to background level, and he picked up the receiver.

  “Ray? It’s Mac Smith.”

  Pawkins laughed and lowered the volume even more. “Twice in one night,” he said. “To what do I owe my good fortune?”

  “I assume I’m not interrupting something important,” Smith said, “so I won’t apologize.”

  “Good. Actually, I’m relaxing and enjoying my music. Strauss. Der Rosenkavalier. A perfect bittersweet comedy opera, so different from the blood and gore of his earlier works, Salome and Elektra, although they were fine, too. Quite daring. But you didn’t call for my analysis of Strauss and his operas. It was good seeing you again after all this time. Thanks again for the drink and snacks. I didn’t intend to freeload.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Smith said. “I’ll tell you why I’m calling, Ray. Annabel attended her board meeting. As you can imagine, this murder of the young singer has everyone shaken.”

  “And I’m sure there was plenty of histrionics. Opera lovers tend that way.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Look, the board has decided to take whatever steps it can to resolve this internally.”

  “Internally? MPD will love that, a bunch of wealthy opera aficionados playing Sherlock Holmes. Will they break into ‘Di quella pira’ when the killer is apprehended?”

  “Raymond,” Smith said, “we might get further with this if you’ll stop playing the obscure reference game with me. I—”

  “Hardly obscure, Mac. It’s from Il Trovatore, one of the most famous arias ever written.”

  “Be that as it may, they—the board—asked Annabel if I—if you—would be interested in taking this on as a freelance assignment. Ms. Crier evidently told them that her super had been an MPD Homicide detective. Naturally, that piqued their interest.”

  “Interesting,” Pawkins said. “We’ll work together?”

  “No. I said I’d call you. That’s the extent of my involvement.”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “As you wish. I’ve done my duty to Annabel and the cause of opera.”

  “You’ll at least let me bounce things off you. I’d enjoy that, matching wits again with the brilliant Mackensie Smith. Not that I won many of those courtroom battles, but it would keep me honest.”

  Smith chuckled. “All right,” he said. “You can bounce things off me. I don’t know if they’ve come up with a budget to cover your fee and expenses, but I’m sure they will.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t think of charging the folks at WNO. Good Lord, Mac, after all these years of them staging world-class opera at my back door, the least I can do is offer my services as a gift. Besides, there might be a book in it. I’ve always wanted to write a book about opera, but lack the credentials. Still, if I use my investigative skills to solve a suitable murder here, publishers will be beating down my door. Meet for breakfast?”

  “I, ah—sure, that would be fine.”

  They nailed down a time and place to meet the next morning and ended the conversation. Pawkins boosted the volume again and reveled in the final acts, especially the trio in which the three stunning lead voices blended, a moment that brought tears to his eyes.

  He returned the CD to its slot in the cabinet, resumed his seat at the desk, and logged on to his computer. He spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing a variety of investment accounts, smiling at their increase in value since last looking at them two days ago. He exited that program, unlocked one of the desk drawers, and pulled out a small black notebook. He opened it and examined the most recent page, on which a number of dollar figures were noted. Then he read off a series of digits written on the book’s first page and fed them to the keyboard. Seconds later, another series of dollar amounts appeared on the screen. Nothing accompanied those figures, no account names, no addresses, no headings or other information. The final figure was larger than the preceding one, prompting another small smile. He noted that last dollar amount in the book, closed and locked it in the drawer, and returned the key to where it had been hidden beneath paper clips in a coffee mug.

  He logged off the computer, extinguished the lights, and left the room, stopping in the kitchen to put his empty teacup in the dishwasher. He went upstairs, a satisfied grin wreathing his face as he slipped into bed, the four cats staking out positions at its foot.

  EIGHT

  Readers of the Washington Post and viewers of TV news shows the following morning learned that the President’s poll numbers had dropped to their lowest point ever; that Iran had dispatched a team of diplomats to Iraq to help that country establish a fundamentalist government; that scientists had definitively linked the continuing increase in the number of hurricanes to global warming; and that a Canadian opera singer, enrolled in the Washington National Opera’s Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, had been found dead in the Kennedy Center the previous night.

  The front-page article in the Post reported that the
corpse was that of Charise Lee, a twenty-eight-year-old female voice student from Toronto. Her body was found in a secluded area of the Kennedy Center and was being treated as a possible homicide. Her family had been notified and was en route to Washington from Toronto. No further details were available, according to a police spokesman. An investigation was under way.

  The article was clearly written without a great deal of hard information to go on. A paragraph, lifted from a WNO press release, described the Young Artist Program. William Frazier, chairman of WNO’s board, who was reached at home, stated, “Naturally, all of us at the Washington National Opera are shocked and saddened by this terrible event. Ms. Lee was a young singer of extraordinary talent, whose star in opera was bright. Our hearts go out to her family.”

  It was a little before seven in Mac and Annabel’s Watergate apartment. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Annabel had finally given up at four and tried to take her mind off the murder by going to the library and reading a book purported to be funny but wasn’t, at least not in her current mood. Mac joined her at five.

  “Mr. Pawkins agreed to investigate on behalf of the company?” Annabel asked when he’d settled next to her on the couch. She knew the answer but was in need of confirmation, or starting the conversation.

  “Right. And he doesn’t want to be paid. He says it’ll be his gift to the opera.”

  “That’s so generous. What else did he say?”

  “I don’t remember. He likes tossing out opera references, maybe to test me. I failed. I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He wants to bounce things off me.”

  “I thought…”

  “I don’t mind being a sounding board. It won’t go further than that.”

  She sat back and closed her eyes.

  “You’re in your thinking mode,” he said.

  She came forward and faced him. “It had to be someone connected with the opera, Mac. That’s the only logical explanation.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “How many people had access to the Opera House last night?”

  “More than you realize. Lots of people work at the Kennedy Center who have nothing to do with the opera company, stagehands for the other theaters, back-office people, restaurant workers. Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed those gaping loading doors for each theater in the complex. They’re left wide open when sets are being moved in and out. Not hard for someone to slip inside.”

  “I wonder if she was seeing someone romantically.”

  “If she was, he’ll be the first to be questioned. What I’m wondering is how Pawkins will go about investigating. At least having been a cop will help avoid ruffling feathers at MPD.”

  “He won’t have any official status,” Annabel said.

  “He will with your opera people. If you’re right—that it was someone involved with the opera—he’ll probably have better access to them than the cops will.”

  He got off the couch, turned on CNN, mounted a stationary bike, and started peddling. “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

  “Meetings. I’m on the Opera Ball committee. It’ll be here before we know it.”

  “The murder will take some of the gloss off.”

  “I hope not. It’s our biggest fund-raiser. I think it’s shaping up beautifully. Which reminds me, it’s black tie. You might want to pull out your tux and try it on.”

  He stopped peddling. “Are you suggesting it might not fit me as well as the last time I wore it?”

  “Of course not. I just thought it might need cleaning or some minor…adjustments.” She, too, stood. “Shower time. Put on the coffee?”

  “My pleasure. I’ll need the car.”

  “No problem. I won’t need it today.”

  Annabel’s first meeting of the day was at WNO’s administrative offices at 2600 Virginia Avenue, NW, the Watergate office building in which the infamous Watergate break-in took place, and across from what used to be a Holiday Inn. Not exactly a holiday, it had served as a staging area for Nixon’s bungling burglars. As Annabel started up the stairs leading to the main entrance, Genevieve Crier burst through the doors.

  “Good morning, Annabel,” the energetic supers’ coordinator chirped. “Can you believe it actually happened? I mean, right there in the Kennedy Center. I didn’t sleep a wink. Poor girl. I ache for her parents.”

  “I know,” said Annabel. “Has the meeting started? I’m a little late.”

  “No, but they’re gathering. Did you speak with your husband about Mr. Pawkins?”

  “Mac spoke with him last night. He’s agreed to lend a hand. They’re having breakfast as we speak.”

  “Splendid.”

  “Won’t you be at the meeting?”

  “Afraid not. Other fires to put out this morning. I’d better get on my horse. Later, Annabel.”

  As Annabel again made for the doors, she noticed a TV remote truck parked across the street. A mini-van with THE WASHINGTON TIMES on its side occupied a space a few feet from it. They’re not here to do a retrospective on the Watergate break-in, Annabel thought as she entered the building and checked in with the first-floor receptionist.

  A dozen men and women were milling about the large, second-floor conference room when Annabel entered. Chairman Frazier, a compact man who moved with the assurance of a top business leader—he’d made his millions providing state-of-the-art surveillance equipment to the Justice Department—greeted her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Did your husband speak with the private investigator?”

  “Yes,” Annabel said. “He’s willing to help us, at no charge.”

  “Does that mean he won’t give us his full attention?”

  “I only know that Mac called him last night, and Mr. Pawkins agreed to work with us. Mac is having breakfast with him this morning, and I’m sure he’ll ascertain his degree of involvement.”

  “Fine,” said Frazier. “We’d better get started.”

  He had trouble establishing order. Everyone in the room was discussing Charise Lee’s death and resisted his repeated requests that they take their seats. When they finally did, he indicated a printed agenda at each place. First on the list was “Charise Lee.”

  “I’m not suggesting that we spend much time discussing what happened at the Kennedy Center last night,” Frazier said, “except to say that we mustn’t allow it to impede progress on other fronts. Naturally, our hearts go out to Ms. Lee’s family and friends and we’ll do everything we can to help them cope with this tragedy. But we have the opening of Tosca, the marketing of future productions—there are some problems with Andrea Chénier—and, of course, there’s the ball. Before I get to that, I know that Laurie has something to say.”

  Laurie Webster, WNO’s public relations director, said, “The media is all over this story, and it will only get worse. That a murder occurred at all is horrible. That the victim was one of our most promising students is tragic. What is important from our point of view is that we speak with one, unified voice, and that voice will be me and my staff. I urge all of you to resist media pressure to comment on last night, and to refer any press inquiries to my office.”

  “Laurie is right,” Frazier said. “I know it’s a temptation to respond to reporters’ questions, but it’s in our best interest not to. Unless anyone has something to add, let’s move on to the second item on the agenda, the Opera Ball.”

  Webster excused herself: “I’d better get back to my office. Media calls were piling up when I left.”

  The Opera Ball chairwoman, Nicki Frolich, was next to address the gathering. It had occurred to Annabel more than once that if it had been twenty or thirty years ago, it was unlikely she would have been asked to join the Opera Ball committee. Back then, the women who led such highly visible fundraising efforts, known as “Ladies of the Balls,” were for the most part the wives of wealthy men who not only had the time, their husbands’ business connections generated large donations of
money and services. But as more women entered the workplace, the number of wives available, or interested in such activities, diminished, and committees for premiere events like the Opera Ball, the National Symphony Orchestra Ball, the Corcoran Ball, and dozens of smaller social events drew from a less wealthy and socially connected corps of Washington women. Not that Annabel Lee-Smith wasn’t an active member of the city’s social scene. She and Mac were involved in a number of artistic and professional organizations, and if not on the A-list of party invitees, they had their share of invitations to events that were covered in the Post’s Style section.

  Frolich, whose husband was one of the area’s best-known plastic surgeons, was experienced at spearheading big-ticket fundraisers, despite her relatively young age (no one except those who needed to know knew for certain how old she was, although the consensus was that her fiftieth birthday was still to be celebrated). Five feet, four inches tall, she gave the appearance of being taller by the way she held herself. Her silver-blond hair was styled short, with chunky highlights and short layers to make her seem taller, and to elongate her round face. Her energy level was capable of fatiguing marathoners, her smile wide, white, and genuine. She ran the committee as though it were a Fortune 500 company, and Annabel didn’t doubt that should the doctor’s wife have chosen to build a business career, she would have shattered the glass ceiling into many pieces.

  Frolich concluded her status report by saying, “As Bill said, we mustn’t allow the tragedy of Ms. Lee’s death to derail our efforts to make this year’s Ball the biggest and best ever, to say nothing of the most profitable.” She spoke directly to Annabel and another woman who was on her committee. “We’ll be meeting with the full Ball staff at eleven. You’ll excuse me. I have an appointment with the florist.”