Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens

by Patrice Greenwood

  “Sure.”

  He glanced at me as he buckled his seat belt. “Ever been to The Farm House?”

  “No. Is it as rustic as it sounds?”

  “It’s not fancy, but the food is good.”

  “Sold.”

  He directed me to drive to the south side of town. The Farm House turned out to be not far from the police station, in a building that had housed some other restaurant and been redecorated to look barn-like. I was skeptical, but when we went in, the savory aromas of grilled meat and fried potatoes reassured me.

  We were seated by a window and given chips and salsa. To keep myself from spoiling my appetite, I broke a tortilla chip into tiny pieces to nibble. Micro-chips, I thought, grinning to myself.

  “Margarita?” Tony asked when the waiter requested our drink order.

  I looked up from perusing a list of local micro-brews. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

  “Frozen?” the waiter asked.

  “Rocks. With salt.”

  He went away, and I ate a micro-chip. “How’s the investigation going?”

  Tony sighed. “Tedious. Spent all day yesterday going through the props room, looking for the murder weapon. You know they have like ten thousand props?”

  “I knew it was a lot. Five productions.”

  “And they’re all numbered and cataloged. Our evidence room should be so organized.”

  “Did you find the weapon?”

  He shook his head and shoveled salsa into his mouth with a chip. I ate another micro-chip.

  “I assumed it was Tosca’s knife,” I said, “but I guess that doesn’t make sense.”

  “No. All the prop knives are dulled. And Tosca’s knife is too big, anyway.”

  “Too big?”

  “The M.E. said the weapon was a small knife. Very sharp.”

  “Like a pocket knife?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Jeez. That could be anywhere.”

  “Yeah. When we didn’t find it on the grounds, we were hoping the murderer ditched it with the props, but no luck. I spent an hour looking at switchblades.”

  “Switchblades?”

  “Yeah. They’re using them in Cesar Chavez. Whoever had the idea of writing an opera about him?”

  “SFO commissions new works fairly frequently. Every year they do either a commissioned work or a U.S. premiere of something from another country.”

  “Hm.”

  Our drinks arrived. I sipped my margarita, which was killer strong, and mused about pocket knives. Who would be likely to carry one?

  Members of the cast wouldn’t have knives on them, but it would be easy enough to retrieve one from a purse or a gym bag. Really, anyone might have a small knife.

  “So what did you do today?” I asked, picking up another micro-chip.

  Tony grimaced. “Spent the morning going through the dumpsters. Afternoon at the forensics lab.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not really. Just eliminated a couple of things.”

  “Have you talked to the Brit yet?”

  “Not yet. The interviewers haven’t seen him. I told them to let me know.”

  We paused to assure the waiter that we both wanted large chunks of moo. Actually, I ordered a filet mignon, which was plenty big enough for me when accompanied by a baked potato and a small salad. Tony asked for a rib-eye, rare, with fries.

  “How’d your day go?” he asked me when the waiter had sailed off toward the grill.

  “Busy. Hired a new employee.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Temporary, to help in the kitchen.” Though I suspected we’d want to keep Ramon. “And Julio came in and baked all afternoon.”

  “On his day off? That’s nice of him.”

  “He’s a nice guy.”

  Tony took a pull at his margarita. “OK, let’s talk through this. Say you’ve just murdered Victor Solano. What do you do?”

  “Oh, thanks a lot!”

  “C’mon, I just want to hear your thoughts.”

  I crunched a micro-chip, thinking. “Well, I get out of there as fast as I can, as unobtrusively as I can.”

  “Which way do you go?”

  I frowned. “I’ve got a knife in my hands, and probably some blood on them. I grab a towel or something to wipe it off, and then I stuff the knife and the towel in my pocket or my purse … no, I don’t think I would have brought a purse. So it must be a pocket.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe you’re in a slinky dress.” The corner of Tony’s mouth curved upward.

  “Well, A: it’s cold, so if I’m in a slinky dress I have a coat on over it. And B: if I have a knife, I must have a pocket. I wouldn’t just carry a knife around the theatre in my hand.”

  “Unless you were planning to kill someone.”

  I glowered at him and sipped my drink. “If I were planning a murder I’d pick a much better time and place.”

  “Good point. So you just happened to have a knife in your pocket, and you went into the dressing room during Act Three and got in a fight with Solano.”

  “You know, that probably means the killer was a man.”

  “Maybe. Back to my question. What do you do?”

  “OK. I stuff the knife and towel into my pocket, and go out. I can’t use the stage door into the theater during the performance, so I go out the back way, by the deck.”

  “And from there?”

  “Get to my car, assuming I have one. Drive someplace I can ditch the knife, clean my hands, and go back in time for the curtain call.”

  “Why drive away? Why not ditch it on the grounds?”

  “Too easy for it to be found.”

  “Then why bother to go back once you’re off the property?”

  “Well, if I was in the audience then other people would have seen me, and my absence would be noticed once the murder was discovered. And if I was in the cast or on the crew, it would be even more noticeable.”

  “What if you were none of the above? A hired assassin?”

  “Then I wouldn’t go back, but people probably would have seen me. And how would I get backstage if no one knew me?”

  “Same way you just snuck out. The back way.”

  I shook my head. “There would be people all over. It’s very close quarters backstage. And anyway—if there’s time to hire an assassin, then there’s time to plan the murder for a safer time and place.”

  “Yeah, OK. It was unpremeditated. We reached the same conclusion.”

  “Thank you.” I picked up my last micro-chip, dipped it in the salsa, which was kind of a pathetic gesture given its size, and ate it.

  “But the murderer didn’t leave the grounds. We checked with the parking lot crew, and no one left during the third act. By the time people started leaving, we were already having them give their names to Security.” He scooped up some salsa with a chip and crunched it. “The murderer is already in our pool of suspects, it’s just that it’s a big pool. He—or she—is someone who could go into the dressing room without the people backstage thinking it strange. Someone known to Victor Solano, and to the cast and crew.”

  I nodded. That was still a lot of people. Anyone who was a part of the company, and a lot of people who were peripherally associated. Like Thomas Ingraham. He had a nodding acquaintance with Solano. I’d watched him open a bottle of red wine with a Swiss army knife, which could easily have been in his pocket.

  So the question was motive. As far as I knew, Mr. Ingraham had none. Plus, I could personally attest that he’d been in the audience during the third act. But there had probably been a lot of men with pocket knives at the performance.

  “Have you found anyone who heard Solano arguing with someone?”

  Tony shook his head, licked salt from the rim of his glass, and pulled at the margarita. “Went over it a couple of times with everyone who was backstage. No one saw anyone go into the dressing room who didn’t belong there. No one heard the fight.”

  “Damn.”

  The waiter br
ought our dinners, and we gave them our immediate attention. The beef was good, really tender, and perfectly prepared, raising The Farm House several notches in my estimation. I chewed a bite of meat slowly, savoring it, while I watched Tony devour two large bites of his steak and carve a third.

  “You really were starving,” I said.

  “Missed lunch.”

  “That’s my trick.”

  He flashed a grin at me and kept eating. For a few minutes we both focused on the food, though I was still thinking about the murder.

  If it was a man (which I thought was more likely, because of the pocket knife), then the most obvious suspect was Matthew Carter. He had opportunity and motive. His alibi was his lover, Geoffrey Harrison, who might lie to protect him.

  So how to prove he was the murderer? Either catch him and Harrison in a lie, or find someone who saw one or both of them somewhere other than where they claimed to be.

  “Have you talked to Geoffrey Harrison?”

  “Constantly. He and Carter are sticking to their story. And one of the chorus saw them leave the dressing room together early in Act Three, which tends to confirm it.”

  “Hm.”

  Something niggled at the back of my brain. I remembered Vi telling me about how she’d ended up singing the shepherd-boy, a role for which she was the cover.

  “Have you talked to Lydia … I don’t know her last name. The woman who was supposed to sing the shepherd boy?” I asked.

  Tony blinked at me. “I’ve talked to a lot of people in the last few days.”

  “She called in sick just before the performance. She was supposed to sing the shepherd-boy in Act Three. That’s how Vi ended up singing it.”

  Tony ate a fry. “OK.”

  “Well, what if she did that so she’d have an opportunity to get into the principal men’s dressing room?”

  He tilted his head at me. “Thought we’d agreed that this wasn’t premeditated.”

  “Yes … but this is an anomaly. If I were leading the investigation, I’d check it out.”

  He took out his pocket notebook. “What’s the name again?”

  “Lydia something. I still have your program if you need it.”

  “No, the opera gave us a few.”

  We talked through the murder some more until we started talking in circles, by which time I was getting sleepy. The waiter came to see if we wanted dessert, and we both passed. When he brought the check I got out my wallet.

  “No, no,” Tony said, grabbing the folder. “I invited you.”

  “Well, thanks. Next time I’ll treat.”

  “You’re the lady. You don’t pay.”

  “That’s not really fair.”

  “Who said anything about fair? I thought you were old fashioned.”

  I bit my lip. “Customs are changing.” I didn’t want to say what I was also thinking, which was that I knew his salary wasn’t huge.

  “Well, the custom in my family is that the man pays.”

  “All right. If you won’t let me treat you, maybe you’ll let me make you dinner next time.”

  He gave me a sly look. “In your tiny kitchen upstairs, or in the big fancy kitchen?“

  I laughed. “It’s not that tiny. I can’t do a five-course meal up there, but I can handle a regular dinner.”

  “Good. I like the upstairs better anyway.”

  Because my bed was right there? I drank the last of my margarita to hide the sudden heat in my cheeks.

  “You also need to decide on a movie,” Tony said, pulling out his wallet.

  I sighed. “Not this week.”

  “Yeah, not for me either. Gonna be working long hours on this for a few more days at least.”

  “There’s a point where the likelihood of solving the crime diminishes, right?” I said.

  He stuffed several bills into the check folder, then gave me a sharp look. “We’re not there yet.”

  “I hope you find the weapon.”

  “Me too.”

  I drove back to the tearoom, running through the list of suspects in my head again. My list was not anywhere near complete, and I had reasons against just about everyone on it being the killer. I needed the whiteboard Tony had talked about. I wondered if he actually had one for working on the case, and if so, whether it was covered with multicolored scribbles.

  I pulled into my parking space and turned off the engine. “Thanks for dinner. You were right, the food’s great there.”

  “Thanks for letting me use you for a sounding board.”

  “Glad to help.”

  I couldn’t read his expression in the shadowed darkness. Behind him, a light from up the street shone through the leaves of my lilac bushes. He leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.

  I caught my breath, but he was already getting out of the car. I got out, too, and locked it.

  Tony headed for his bike. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “OK. Good night.”

  He waved a hand, then backed the bike away, turned it, and cruised out toward the street. I watched, impressed at how quiet he was being when I knew how loud that bike’s engine could get.

  Feeling disappointed, I headed for the house. The light on the back portal was on, as were the lights in the hall and the dining parlor. I didn’t remember whether I’d turned the outside light on, but I was sure I’d left the inside ones off.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Captain.”

  Not really in the mood for ghost antics, I unlocked the back door and stepped in slowly, listening. As usual, I heard nothing to indicate that there was anyone else in the house.

  I walked down to the main parlor. The light there was off. I flipped the switch, just to confirm that it was undisturbed.

  But it wasn’t. Vi sat curled in one of the blue wing chairs in Iris, weeping.

  7

  Vi!” I hurried to her, kneeling by her chair and taking her hand. “What’s the matter? What brought you here?”

  She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in, but I still had my key, and I didn’t want to go home, because Mom doesn’t like to see me cry…”

  “Of course you can come here if you need to, but what is it? Can you tell me?”

  “I just miss Victor so much. Things haven’t been going very well.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “I didn’t realize how much of a difference he made just by being there. Everyone’s really tense now, and there’s a lot of fighting. A couple of people have said some things to me that they just wouldn’t have said before.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Would you like some tea? Ginger-mint?”

  She sniffed again. “That sounds nice.”

  “I’ll go put the kettle on. Be right back.”

  I hurried to the pantry and filled a kettle. Fetched the teapot I’d used that afternoon from where Ramon had left it to dry. I was measuring tea into the infuser when I heard the piano.

  Mozart, again. The same phrase I’d heard before.

  How did Vi know that phrase?

  I ran back to the parlor, intending to ask her, and found her clutching the arms of her chair, staring wide-eyed at the piano.

  The keyboard cover was still closed.

  The music ended just as it had the previous time I’d heard it. I knew that the song, whatever it was, went on from there, but I couldn’t remember how.

  “Ellen!” Vi whispered in an awed tone, staring at the instrument.

  “Yes. It’s happened before.”

  “I thought the ghost was just a story.”

  I shook my head. “I’m really beginning to think it isn’t.”

  The kettle began whistling.

  “Will you be all right here for a minute?”

  “Um.”

  “Or you can come with me.”

  She shook her head, and seemed to pull herself together. She straightened in her chair and rearranged her purple broomstick skirt, still staring at the piano. “I’
ll be all right.”

  “OK. Just scream if you need me.”

  I hurried to the pantry, poured hot water over the tea leaves, grabbed some cups and saucers and put them on the tray with the pot and the timer, and carried it all back to the parlor. Vi hadn’t moved.

  I set the tray down and sat in the other blue chair, watching my guest. At least she wasn’t crying any more.

  I waited, watching the timer count down. I didn’t want to push Vi to talk, and I didn’t want to discourage Captain Dusenberry from making more music. But both of them were silent. When the timer went off, I caught it on the first beep and shut it down.

  The sound seemed to shake Vi from her reverie. She watched me remove the infuser from the teapot and set it on a spare saucer. I poured for us both and handed a cup to her.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip, then sighed. “These past few days have been so strange. I feel like I’m drifting around on an alien planet sometimes.”

  “What brought you here tonight?”

  “Oh—I guess it was really nothing. It just bothered me at the time.”

  “Then it wasn’t nothing.”

  “I’m over-sensitive, I think. I got upset when I shouldn’t have.”

  “Over…?”

  “We had the first dress rehearsal for Cesar Chavez today, and the director was sitting out in the house with a bunch of bigwigs, and he kept stopping us, so we were running late. So the chorus came on in Act Two and he stopped the show and yelled at me for missing a cue.”

  “Yelled at you?”

  “Yeah. It was my fault. I got distracted by something out behind the stage. A beer can or something catching the sunlight. I was upstage, at the top of a platform, and I wanted to sneak a look at the mountains. So I wasn’t paying attention and missed my cue.”

  “Well, that’s no reason to yell at you.”

  “He was in a bad mood anyway, because the rehearsal wasn’t going well, and Neil and Charles and everyone were watching. I think he just needed to yell at someone, and I gave him the perfect excuse.”

  She drank some more tea, then set her cup down, glancing toward the piano. It was silent. The captain had apparently made his point, whatever it was.

  “Pretty skirt,” I said.

  “Oh, thanks.” She smiled ruefully. “I’m so predictable.”