Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  I found several reviews, including a recent one in the Albuquerque Journal about his Scarpia at SFO. Glowing. Most of the others were positive, but one New York critic apparently disliked his voice, not only in the opera he was reviewing but in a couple of previous ones he saw fit to mention.

  That smacked of politics to me. How had Solano managed to offend that particular reviewer?

  Out of curiosity I surfed on the reviewer’s name, resulting in a long list of reviews and one rather petulant blog post from, apparently, an ex-boyfriend.

  Wild scenario: gay reviewer makes a pass at opera singer, is turned down, and retaliates with slam review.

  Pretty far-fetched. I went back to surfing Solano, this time keeping an eye out for any romantic associations.

  I found none.

  Absolute zero; not even a photo of him out on a date. Apparently he was very private about his romantic affairs.

  Why would a man be so protective of his love-life? Particularly a celebrity who was often in the spotlight and who enjoyed it. I’d expect such a person to show off his romantic conquests, not hide them.

  Possibly he was into some weird kink that could damage his career if it were known.

  Or was illegal.

  I frowned at my monitor. That just didn’t fit with the man I’d met, though any stage performer was capable of convincing deception. But to me he had felt like a good person. I’d known a few bad ones, and just being in their presence had made me uncomfortable. I didn’t react that way to Victor Solano.

  I sighed, unable to unravel that particular knot. Not enough information. I’d try again later.

  I surfed on Neil Passaggio and found a few articles. He was a former singer, which I hadn’t known, and an up-and-coming director of opera. One article called him a “fiery tenor.”

  Unlike Solano, he showed off his romances. There were lots of photographs of him with young singers from three years or more ago. Then a huge barrage of announcements of his wedding, followed by a bunch of pictures of him and his wife.

  The arguing woman. Arguing with him, and yelling at Sandra Usher.

  She didn’t look argumentative in the photos I found online. I was surprised to see that her smile made her look quite lovely.

  She was not involved in opera, unlike many of the women in photos of Passaggio that predated her advent. Michelle Passaggio (née Martin) had been an interior designer before her marriage. If she had continued that career, I didn’t find any mention of it. She looked to me rather like a trophy wife, except that she was classier than most.

  And trophy wives were often gold-diggers, which I just didn’t see in Michelle. As a director, Passaggio would certainly make good money, but he was no Donald Trump.

  Well, enough of that. I was starting to feel like a stalker.

  I shut down my computer and went downstairs to the dining parlor to pull the extra leaves for the table out of the closet. As I stepped up to the door, the floor creaked beneath my foot and gave a little.

  “Oh, blast.”

  I did not need to have to repair the floor right now, thank you. I prodded the offending board again with my toe and it wiggled. Not good.

  Getting down on my hands and knees, I pulled back the corner of the oriental rug that filled most of the room, and looked more closely at the floor boards. I didn’t see any rot, for which I was thankful.

  The loose board was right up against the corner of the room, an end piece about eighteen inches long. It looked slightly narrow, and I wondered if it might have shrunk. The floor was old: solid oak, possibly original to the house. In Santa Fe’s dry climate, wood shrank and warped and twisted in all kinds of interesting ways.

  I pushed at the loose board to see how much I could wiggle it. It slid to one side and then away from the wall. I poked at it and the end near me popped up, surprising me into making a startled noise.

  The near end was sticking up about half an inch. I took hold of it and gave a gentle tug, and the whole piece came up.

  “Damn it,” I muttered.

  I’d broken my floor.

  The piece of wood itself was undamaged. Maybe it really had just shrunk.

  I peered at the space beneath, thinking unhappy thoughts about spiders. The floor was sprung, and I could see one of the supports running across the gap close to me. At the other end of the space was something I took for a clump of insulation.

  Except that if this was the original floor, it probably wasn’t insulated.

  I looked closer. Maybe it was an old sock or something; it looked whitish.

  I laid the board aside and fetched a flashlight from the kitchen. Shining it into the gap, I saw that what I’d taken for insulation was actually paper.

  Multiple folded papers, to be precise. Tied with a scrap of ribbon. My heart started beating faster.

  After a careful inspection for spiders, I reached in and picked up the bundle. A deep layer of dust covered it. I shook it over the hiding space and tapped it a couple of times, careful to be gentle. Still, it crackled in my hand, and exuded a fragrance of old, musty paper that made me think of the many happy hours I’d spent deep in back sections of the city library.

  I turned the bundle over and saw handwriting, a thin script that looked as fragile as the paper it rested on.

  El Capitan Señor Samuel Dusenberry

  Fort Marcy Post

  Ciudad de la Santa Fé de San Francisco de Asís

  5

  I put down the flashlight and cupped the bundle of letters in both hands, afraid of damaging them. If they had really belonged to Captain Dusenberry—and they looked old enough—they might be important historical documents. I should hand them over to Bennett Cole at the Museum of New Mexico.

  No way. Not before I read them.

  A ball of excitement settled in my gut. I suspected the letter on top was from a woman; the handwriting was careful and beautiful, and the exaggerated mode of address seemed playful. But maybe I was reading too much into it.

  I got up, threw back the lace tablecloth from one end of the dining table, and laid the bundle on the polished wood. Pulling up a chair, I wondered if I should untie the ribbon or try to slide it off. Now that I looked more closely at it, I saw that a desiccated rosebud was tied into the bow.

  Shouldn’t untie it, then. I pushed gently at the ribbon, which was loose enough to move. With aching slowness I nudged it toward one end of the bundle. About an inch from the end it stopped moving so easily, and I was so annoyed I growled.

  The ribbon wasn’t going to budge any farther. Frustrated, I pinched the end of a letter in the middle of the bundle and wiggled it. Luck was with me; it gave, and I was able to pull it free. I pulled out two more letters, keeping track of the order they were in, and by then the ribbon was loose enough to remove. I set it carefully aside, restored the letters to their proper order, and placed them on the table in front of me.

  I glanced up at the chandelier. Nothing moving.

  Hope you don’t mind, Captain. I’m curious.

  Taking a deep breath, I picked up the top letter. It wasn’t in an envelope; the address was written on the outside of the page, and when I turned it over I saw that it had once been sealed with a dab of red sealing wax. I lifted the top edge and carefully spread the letter flat on the table. It creaked a little, but the creased edges had been softened, perhaps by many readings, and I was able to unfold it without damaging it.

  Muy distinguido señor,

  Oh, great. It was in Spanish. Mine was passable, but not fantastic.

  I skimmed it, noticing some references to music and a “baille” which I believed to be a dance. Also the incongruous word “Exchange,” immediately following “La Fonda.”

  La Fonda was the name of the hotel on the southeast corner of the plaza in Santa Fe. It had been there forever, certainly since Captain Dusenberry’s time.

  So did the letter writer want to make an exchange of some kind at La Fonda?

  I had no clue.

  I skipped to
the signature: Maria Hidalgo. The Hidalgos were a prominent Santa Fe family. They were among the first settlers, and returned after the Pueblo Revolt. They had land and major influence back in the day.

  I took a quick glance through the rest of the letters. They all appeared to be written by the same person, but after the first three or four the addresses changed from Spanish to English. I set the Spanish ones aside and happily opened the first of the English-looking ones.

  Dear Capitan Dusenberry,

  Many thanks for your most excellent company and escort to the concert at the Exchange. The music and the evening were of great delight, most especially the voice of the lovely soprano, Miss Lago. I thought the lyric of her aria most striking.

  Speriam che in contento, finisca l’affanno

  Non sempre è tiranno il fato ed amor

  I will remember these words when my heart fails me.

  How lovely it would be to form a musical group, as we discussed, so that we might all together enjoy music whenever we pleased. My sister would join us, and I will speak to some of my friends who might also have an interest. You will, I hope, be willing to come and play the pianoforte for us? And perhaps to lend your voice, for though you are modest, in truth you are a fine singer.

  I look forward to your visit on Thursday.

  Favor de escribirme pronto,

  Maria Hidalgo

  Spanish and Italian. Yi.

  Though the lyric should be surfable, if it was anything near accurate and not too obscure.

  I sat gazing at the letter, feeling a tingle of excitement. So many new details about Captain Dusenberry! He and Señora—Señorita?—Hidalgo were friends. That gave him a connection to a powerful Hispanic family, something that would surely be useful to a military officer.

  And he played the piano. I couldn’t help smiling. I knew he was a music lover, but to see it confirmed pleased me immensely.

  More puzzling, “Exchange” had showed up again, and it appeared to refer to a place. Could “La Fonda Exchange” once have been the name of the hotel? That sounded so odd.

  I folded up the letter and restored it to its place in the stack, then carried all of them and the ribbon upstairs to my office. I surfed on “La Fonda Exchange” and learned that “Exchange Hotel” had been its name during the territorial years. Apparently it was a common name—I found references to Exchange Hotels in other towns, including Las Vegas, New Mexico.

  I pulled up a translator and typed in the Italian lyric. Only partial success, but the gist of the first line seemed to be “hope that happiness finishes the anxiety.”

  Surfing on the lyric itself produced the entire text of the aria from which it came, which turned out to be Mozart, from The Marriage of Figaro, along with a translation. Sung by the Countess Almaviva, the aria expressed cautious optimism that her life would soon improve.

  Why had Maria Hidalgo chosen to quote from that particular aria? It wasn’t just because of the music or the performance she’d heard. She said they were words she would remember.

  I’d seen Figaro, but not recently. I recalled that the Countess and her maid exchanged clothes, and that mischief ensued, which eventually was all sorted out into a happy ending. Now I was curious, so I resolved to read the whole libretto.

  Not today, though. I needed to get ready to go over to Nat’s for dinner.

  I glanced at the time and gasped. Four-thirty! And I’d left a mess in the dining parlor!

  I found a shallow box to hold the letters and the ribbon with its dried rose. It just fit into my desk drawer alongside the bank bag fat with Saturday’s receipts. I locked the drawer and hurried downstairs to straighten the dining parlor.

  The floorboard and flashlight lay on the floor beside the gap where I’d found the letters. With a bit of effort, I wiggled the board back into its place, and put the corner of the rug back over it.

  I straightened the tablecloth, set my flashlight on the table, and opened the closet, being careful not to step on the hidden compartment. I pulled out the table leaves and leaned them against the wall; I’d put them in the table later.

  Returned the flashlight to the kitchen. Dashed back upstairs and jumped into the shower. As I scrambled into some clothes, I thought I heard distant music. I stood still and listened.

  It sounded like the stereo was on downstairs.

  I closed my eyes and indulged in a sigh. Not again.

  I finished dressing, grabbed purse and keys and a sweater in case it got cold later, and walked slowly downstairs. The stereo was definitely on, and it was playing Mozart: the Andante from Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

  OK, that was too weird to be coincidence. The only way anyone could know that the letter I’d read referred to Mozart was if they’d read it too, and I was pretty sure no one had opened that hiding place in the floor for a very long time.

  Which meant that Captain Dusenberry was for real.

  I didn’t have time to sort it out. I paused outside the pantry, but didn’t go in to turn off the stereo. Instead I looked around me, at the hallway, the stairs, the doorways to the pantry and the dining parlor, the back door with its lights throwing indirect sunlight onto the oak floor.

  This was my home. I’d lived here less than a year, but it was the place where my heart rested. If I had to share it with a ghost, at least he was a gentleman.

  I let myself out and got in my car. My plan was to stop by the grocery store and pick up some of Manny’s favorite beer. A glance at the clock on the dash told me I had just enough time.

  The checkout line was longish. While I was waiting, I thought I should call Nat and let her know I was on my way. Unfortunately, my phone wasn’t in my purse, or my pocket. I’d left it in the office, I was pretty sure.

  Quietly chiding myself, I smiled at the cashier and paid cash for the beer. Tried not to be too lead-footed as I drove to Nat’s.

  She lived on the north side of town, not terribly far from the Opera. Her views were to the east and south: the mountains, and after dark a glimpse of the lights of Santa Fe.

  The sun was still an hour or so from setting. I could smell mesquite smoke as I pulled into Nat’s driveway. Another car was there; a silver BMW that I was pretty sure belonged to Claudia Pearson. I smiled; I liked Claudia.

  Nat had been friends with Sylvia Carruthers, who was Claudia’s boss until she died. Claudia had inherited Sylvia’s job of directing the Santa Fe Preservation Trust, and all the headaches that went with it. She was quiet and classy where Sylvia had been pushy and loud, but they both had the same passion for history and the same kindness of heart.

  I got out, collected my beer from the back seat, and followed my nose onto the deck and around the north side where Manny was on duty at the grill. He gave me a big smile and a wave.

  “¡Hola, chica!”

  “Hola yourself. I brought cervesa.”

  “Bless you! The girls are making some kind of concoction, a cross between a margarita and a cosmopolitan.”

  “That sounds terrible.”

  He set down his tongs long enough to give me a hug, then shooed me inside. My stomach, awakening with proximity to the juicy smells coming from the grill, gave a long, low growl.

  Nat and Claudia were in the kitchen, dressed far more casually than when I’d last seen them. Nat was in a multicolored broomstick skirt and a yellow blouse with puffy sleeves, and Claudia had on a slinky knit top in a dark shade of mauve over pipestem jeans. They greeted me with hugs and demands that I sample their handiwork.

  It was pink, sort of. A kind of cotton-candy pink with a touch of salmon.

  “What’s in it?” I asked, despite my fear that I’d be better off not knowing.

  “Vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice, lime juice and tequila,” said Nat, filling a shot glass and handing it to me. “Taste.”

  I took a wary sip. It wasn’t bad, really. Milder than a margarita, but I suspected the cotton-candyness hid a knockout punch.

  “Wow,” I said, slightly breathless.

&nbs
p; “We’re trying to decide what to call it. I like ‘Margrapolitan’ but Claudia doesn’t.”

  “How about ‘Doña Tules’?” I said.

  “There’s a thought,” said Claudia. “A touch of history.”

  Nat hefted a pitcher that was half full of the concoction. “Want a whole one?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll start with a beer. Is there room in the fridge for these?”

  “There should be, now that Manny’s taken the meat out.”

  “What’s he grilling? It smells fantastic.”

  “Elk steaks and venison sausage.”

  “Ah … his hunter friends are having a good season.”

  “They had it last year, actually. These are leftovers. I think they’re clearing space for this year’s haul. Let’s go out on the deck, shall we?”

  I tucked my sixpack in the fridge between a dish of marinated green beans and a bowl of potato salad, opened a beer, and tagged along after Nat and Claudia out to the deck. We sat in comfy chairs on the east side and gazed at the mountains. Occasionally a gust of aromatic breeze would waft over us from the north.

  I yawned. “Thanks for inviting me, Nat. I needed a break.”

  “You said it was busy yesterday.”

  “Yeah, and it looks like it will be all week. Apparently Mr. Solano said he liked the tearoom, and word has been going around in opera circles. We’re booked solid.”

  “Wow! Do you need help?”

  “Maybe. Rosa’s brother is going to come in.”

  “Can he cook?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll see what he’s good for when he gets there. He plays the guitar beautifully, but that’s not what I need this week.”

  “Opera circles,” mused Claudia over her martini glass of cotton-candy. “I wonder if Thomas had anything to do with it.”

  “That hadn’t occurred to me,” I said. “You think he might have?”

  “He does love a good story.”

  And he was at the tearoom for Vi’s event. Well, if I owed my busy week to Mr. Ingraham, I could only be grateful to him.