Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  There was electricity in the air, the kind that comes from the best of performances. It held me frozen, though in this case I was frozen in dismay.

  Then the blackmail. Scarpia promised Tosca he would let Cavaradossi live if she yielded herself to his—Scarpia’s—lust. She finally agreed, and coaxed a letter of safe-conduct from him, so that she and Cavaradossi could get out of the country after his “fake” execution.

  When Scarpia approached to claim her, Tosca produced a knife and stabbed him, so swiftly and fiercely that the audience gasped, me included.

  This is Tosca’s kiss!

  I’m not a violent person, but I wanted to shout, “You go, girl!”

  The lights came up, and we all heaved a sigh of relief. Mr. Ingraham leaned forward.

  “Anyone need to get up, or should we all stay here and huddle?”

  Tony looked at me. “You mean that’s not the end?”

  “No, there’s one more act.”

  Exasperation flicked across his face, though he hid it quickly. I threw back the blanket and stood, fastening my coat’s buttons.

  “Actually, I think I’d like a walk. Will you join me?” I asked Tony.

  “Sure.”

  We went up to the Stravinsky Terrace, and Tony bought us both some coffee. The breeze was now quite chilly, and we sheltered in the lee of a wall while we sipped the scalding heat.

  Above, I heard voices from the members-only bar. Mr. Ingraham probably had access to it, I realized. He could have bought a round of drinks with no waiting. How kind of him not to say so.

  “Sorry it’s such a heavy piece,” I said to Tony. “There are light-hearted operas, this just isn’t one of them.”

  “I guess you didn’t choose it.”

  “No. But I did want to hear Mr. Solano sing. He’s got such a marvelous voice.”

  “That’s the bad guy?”

  “Scarpia, yes.”

  Tony nodded, gazing reflectively toward the stage. “See, I have to deal with guys like that all the time.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. This really isn’t the best opera for you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m enjoying the company, at least.”

  “If you want to, we could go.”

  He looked at me, dark eyes catching mine and making me tingle. Finally he shook his head.

  “That’s tempting, but I don’t want to take you away from your friends.”

  “Nice of you.”

  He smiled. “I’m a nice guy, if you can believe it.”

  “Oh, I believe it.”

  “—practically snogging him right on stage. Neil wasn’t happy,” said a man’s voice above us in a distinct accent.

  Tony glanced up, then looked at me and whispered, “Snogging?”

  “British slang. It means making out.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw Harry Potter. But what’s a Brit doing here?”

  “It’s an international company. He could be here with one of the artists, or as an artist. Or he could just be visiting Santa Fe.”

  Tony tilted his head, looking up, but there was no one in view. I swallowed the last of my coffee.

  “Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried to the ladies’ room, where there was fortunately no waiting. Many of the audience had elected to remain in their seats … and probably a few were asleep. Though how anyone could sleep through Puccini, I didn’t know.

  When I rejoined Tony, he hastily removed his hands from his pockets.

  “You’re cold. Shall we go back in?”

  “Yeah. Really glad you brought that blanket.”

  “I always do. Even if the weather’s ideal, it can get cold toward the end of the evening.”

  At the gateway in the low adobe wall surrounding the audience, we nearly collided with the arguing woman I’d seen earlier, now swathed in a dark fur coat. She was alone, and looked no less argumentative: more so, if anything. We yielded to her and I watched her stride across the house and out into the southern patio.

  Tony and I hurried back to our seats and the comfort of my blanket. We tucked the edges around ourselves. Manny and Nat were sharing a blanket, too. Mr. Ingraham and Claudia each had their own, and Claudia had donned a close-fitting, vaguely Russian-looking fur hat. I peered at it, trying to decide if it was real fur.

  “No,” she said, as if she’d read my mind. “But it’s a good imitation.”

  “As long as it’s warm.”

  My thoughts drifted back to the arguing woman as we waited for the intermission to end. I suspected that her fur coat was real, and that the color of her pale blonde hair was not. She had large eyes and a small chin, and was probably pretty when she wasn’t angry.

  The lights finally dimmed and Act III commenced. I tensed for a moment, until I remembered that Scarpia was dead. A horn played a melody, not quite a fanfare, with lilting tones that calmed my anxiety and foretold the dawn.

  A single figure came onstage: the shepherd-boy. I gasped, realizing that it was Vi.

  Nat turned to look at me, eyes big. I nodded, then looked back at the stage.

  Vi was dressed in shepherd’s clothes, with a cap over her auburn curls. She sang briefly; two verses, sweet and simple. I glanced at the captions.

  I give you sighs,

  There are as many

  As there are leaves

  Driven by the wind

  Nothing to do with the story, really. Just scene-setting, to get the audience back into the opera. I watched Vi’s face, serene, perhaps a little sad.

  It was over too soon. Vi left the stage, and a man with a lantern crossed it. Behind him, the scenery shifted to become the jail where Cavaradossi was being held.

  The music intensified as Tosca came in and the two lovers began planning their doomed escape. Tony’s hand found mine beneath the blanket. I lost track of the drama onstage.

  Could this work? I must have already asked myself a hundred times. There was no way to be certain. On an emotional level, Tony and I connected just fine. Socially: that was the question.

  I would probably be as uncomfortable at a gathering of his friends as he was, here tonight. He’d been so patient, though. So generous, when I knew going in that this wasn’t his kind of fun. At the very least, I owed him reciprocation.

  On stage, Tosca sang of the future she pictured for herself and Cavaradossi, a glorious future filled with happiness, which she would never see. Her lover knew it would not happen, but she clung to that bright hope.

  Was I equally naïve?

  The jailer took Cavaradossi away, to stand before a firing squad for his supposedly fake execution. From beyond the grave, Scarpia reached out to flip the lovers a final bird: the bullets are real, and Cavaradossi is dead. Tosca, thinking he’s pretending, begs him not to move until the soldiers have all gone.

  A shout, and a hubbub of voices offstage. Tosca froze briefly, glanced toward stage left, then again told her lover not to move. As last she felt safe and told him to get up—and discovered his death was real.

  The rest happened quickly. Voices and clamor offstage again, this time from the right. Scarpia’s officers returned, accusing Tosca of killing him. Tosca ran up to the top of a balcony at the rear of the stage, and with a wordless cry, leapt over it to her death. Even though I’d been expecting it, I gasped.

  End of opera. I was glad. A marvelous performance all around, but I felt drained and a bit depressed.

  I let go of Tony’s hand to applaud. The chorus took their bow, then the bit parts—we shouted “Brava!” for Vi—then the soloists. When everyone but Scarpia, Cavaradossi, and Tosca had taken their bows, an lengthy pause followed. Some of the audience rose to their feet, anticipating Mr. Solano’s entrance.

  But he didn’t enter. Tosca and Cavaradossi came on, holding hands, and bowed. They were smiling, but Tosca looked a bit wild-eyed.

  The audience shouted “Victor, Victor!”

  Still no Scarpia.

  Tony jumped in surprise and reached for his pocket. P
hone on buzz-mode; he took it out, grimaced, and leaned over to mutter an apology in my ear.

  “Sorry, gotta go.”

  He got up and hurried out to the south patio, phone to his ear. I watched, expecting him to leave the grounds, but instead he headed for the stage door.

  It was cracked open; someone was there. Tony paused, pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge, and disappeared inside.

  3

  Oh, no!” I said.

  Nat, next to me, gave me a questioning look. The audience was still cheering, still calling for Victor Solano.

  “Something’s happened,” I told Nat.

  The cast took another bow, led by Tosca and Cavaradossi, then left the stage. The audience cried out in protest. The applause began to falter, and voices filled the house, questioning, speculating.

  I stood, grabbed my blanket and my other belongings, and hurried after Tony. The stage door was closed. I pounded on it, to no avail.

  Mr. Ingraham appeared beside me. “Where’s Tony?”

  “In there. He got a page. Something’s terribly wrong.” I tried the handle, but it was locked. I kept pounding.

  “Ellen, that won’t do any good.”

  “I have to see Tony.”

  “Why?”

  I stopped. Why, indeed? I’d been going on pure instinct, the knowledge that there was trouble and that I wanted to help.

  Tony was doing his job, though. I’d just be in the way.

  The stage door opened a crack, and a man in black clothes, wearing a headset and a stressed frown, looked out.

  “I need to speak to Detective Aragón,” I told him.

  “I-I’m sorry—”

  “Please, just ask him to call Ellen. Can you do that?”

  The man nodded and closed the door. I wondered if he would actually deliver my message.

  A feminine wail sounded from somewhere behind the door, then ended abruptly.

  The restless voices of the audience were getting louder. Everyone knew something was wrong.

  The man we had seen earlier—tall, with salt-and-pepper hair—brushed past us, knocked on the stage door, and called, “Roger, it’s me.” The door opened to swallow him, then clapped shut again.

  Nat, Manny, and Claudia joined us. “Ellen?” Nat said.

  “Tony’s in there. Something awful must have happened!”

  “Maybe you should come away, dear.”

  “I’m his ride home.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a man’s voice over a loudspeaker. “We apologize for the inconvenience. It appears that a serious crime has been committed on the premises, and we must ask that you each leave your name and contact information with security as you leave the theatre. Thank you for your cooperation and your understanding.”

  My heart sank. What kind of serious crime would merit such a step? Or require Detective Aragón’s assistance?

  Why hadn’t Victor Solano taken his bow?

  The noise from the audience reached an angry crescendo. The stage door opened once again, and Vi stepped out, still in her shepherd’s costume. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying, though her makeup was still perfect.

  “Vi! What happened?”

  “Ellen, I need to talk to you. Come over here.”

  She led me away from the door and the crowd that was beginning to gather there, into the south patio. The rest of Mr. Ingraham’s party followed.

  Vi turned to me and drew a ragged breath. “Detective Aragón asked me to tell you that he’s investigating a crime. He’ll be here for a while—he said you should go h-home.”

  She was shaking. I laid a hand on her arm. “Vi, what’s happened? Is Mr. Solano ill?”

  Her face crumpled and she shook her head, fresh tears filling her eyes.

  “He’s dead.”

  I heard Nat gasp behind me. I gathered Vi into my arms, even though she was taller than I.

  “Vi, I’m so sorry. Oh, my dear!”

  She gave one sob, then collected herself and withdrew. “I’d better go back. Detective Aragón said none of us should leave.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “All I know is someone found him in his dressing room during the curtain call. Detective Aragón is standing guard until someone comes to help him. He won’t let anyone go in the room.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Thank you, Vi,” said Mr. Ingraham. “We’ll let you get back.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

  She nodded, then hurried back to the stage door. The crowd gathered there let her through, and the door opened for her.

  “We’d better go, Ellen,” Mr. Ingraham said gently.

  I nodded, overwhelmed by sadness. Victor Solano was a brilliant singer, in the prime of his career. And we had all, unknowingly, heard his final performance. I would rather not have been able to make that claim.

  We joined the milling throng of audience members filing out of the theatre with awful slowness. Security guards at the front gate were frantically recording everyone’s name and phone number. We all gave ours, and were finally allowed to go up to the parking lot.

  “Ellen, would you like me to drive you home?” Manny offered when we reached the row where we all were parked.

  I shook my head. “Thank you, but I’ll be all right.” I turned to Mr. Ingraham. “Your part of the evening was wonderful. The opera was wonderful. I wish…”

  “Yes,” he said, enfolding me in a brief hug. “Be careful going home, Ellen.”

  I nodded, then hugged Nat, Manny, and Claudia. We all needed hugs, right then.

  I said good night to them all, then dumped my gear in the back seat of my car, got in, and sat just breathing deeply for a minute. When I was steady, I started the car and drove home.

  The garden smelled of roses and lilies. I let myself in the back door and just stood in the hall, glad to be home, sorrowing over how the evening had ended.

  I’d forgotten the tray that I’d brought the cakes on.

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter. I’d call Mr. Ingraham later.

  I went upstairs and put away my opera gear. I had caught up Tony’s program as well as my own. I put them both in the sitting area of my suite, thinking I’d return Tony’s to him, though perhaps he wouldn’t want a souvenir of this evening.

  I changed out of my finery and into a set of satin pajamas, made myself a cup of hot milk with nutmeg, and curled up in my favorite armchair.

  Poor Tony. What a mess. He’d probably be there all night.

  I tried to imagine what he was dealing with. It sounded very much like Mr. Solano had been murdered. There must be a hundred potential suspects—the whole cast, the crew, orchestra, staff—anyone who had access to backstage. Not to mention the audience. Anyone could have slipped back to the dressing room if they knew where they were going, and the murderer apparently did.

  How could someone commit murder in the middle of a performance and get away with it?

  I had taken the Opera’s backstage tour a few times, and knew that there were no private dressing rooms. There was one large room each for the men’s and women’s chorus, and one shared dressing room each for the principal men and principal women. “There are no divas here,” the tour guide had said.

  So the murderer had needed to find a time when Mr. Solano was alone in the principal men’s dressing room. I suspected that was nearly impossible.

  I picked up a program and turned to the cast list for Tosca. The male soloists were Scarpia, Cavaradossi, Angelotti (the man Cavaradossi was protecting, who only appeared in Act I), the Sacristan (also only in Act I), Spoletta (the torturer), and Sciarrone (another of Scarpia’s men).

  Scarpia died at the end of Act II, so the murder could have happened any time during Act III. Vi had said he was found during the curtain call. When were the other principal men most likely to be away from the dressing room?

  Cavaradossi was onstage for most of Act III, all except the beginning. Spoletta was around
for a good part of it; he was probably backstage when he wasn’t actually onstage. Sciarrone had come on at the end of the act, I recalled.

  But the two men who were only in Act I would probably have been in the dressing room for all of Act III. It was their place to relax, and the most likely place they would be between their time onstage and the curtain call.

  Unless they had filled in with the chorus, who were onstage as other prisoners in the jail during Act III. I didn’t think that was very likely, but it was possible. I’d have to ask Vi.

  Poor Vi. The murder alone was upsetting enough, but she had also lost her mentor. What a terrible blow.

  The Tosca curse. Whether or not the legend was real, this event would only add to it.

  I’d finished my milk, but I wasn’t sleepy. My brain was still busy trying to puzzle out the murder. It was futile; I didn’t have enough information, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  I got up and rinsed my mug, then walked out into the hall and to the window overlooking the front yard. Tony’s bike was parked where he’d left it, down on the street in front of the house. I wondered what he was dealing with now.

  Other police must have arrived and taken over guarding the crime scene. Probably evidence technicians were going over it, maybe the coroner. Tony would be asking questions, trying to establish who had been in or near the room, who had last seen Victor Solano alive.

  A wave of cold realization went through me. Maybe the two principal men who were only in Act I were the ones who had killed him.

  They were the most likely to have had opportunity. Motive? Other than professional jealousy, I didn’t know. It could be anything.

  Not enough information. I really should stop this.

  I took a hot shower and went to bed. Saturday was always a busy day, and I would need to be fresh and cheerful, as opposed to tired and sad.

  I lay waiting for sleep, thinking about Tony and the chaos he was dealing with. As I began to drift off, I heard a melody: gentle, mournful, and lovely—familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I wondered who was playing it, just as I fell asleep.