A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  It did not especially matter, really, since Cabot seemed quite happy sharing a cordial friendship with both Tommy and me at the moment and had so far given me no indication of a desire for anything more. For which I was secretly relieved, though I would not admit that to anyone.

  Just then, though, I did not have to pursue that line of thought, because we heard shouting from King Richard’s dressing room.

  It was right across the hall, so Tommy and I were first in the door, to see our Richard, Albert Reuter, with blood all over his shirt and a knife in his hand. His brown eyes were wild, and his blond hair stood up in spikes. He looked more frightened than menacing, but the man at his feet might disagree.

  The victim was blond, like Albert, young, and probably fairly tall. That was about all I could tell, because there was so much blood from the wound in his neck.

  “Arterial slash. He’s gone, kid,” Preston said behind me, shaking his head.

  “How do you . . . ?” I started.

  “I was a drummer boy at Gettysburg. Don’t ask me anything more, all right?”

  Speechless, Tommy and I both stared back at Preston for a moment, thinking about what horrors he must have seen on those three burning days in July 1863. As we stood there, Father Michael walked in, took one look, and knelt by the victim to begin last rites.

  “Albert,” I asked finally, “are you all right?”

  It was an insane question, but no more insane than what happened next.

  “Oh, Miss Ella!” He dropped the knife and collapsed, sobbing, in my arms. “I didn’t want him dead.”

  I was still holding him and patting his back, comforting him as if he were an upset child, when the police arrived.

  Chapter 2

  In Which Reviews Are Good, but the News Is Not

  Even sans homicide, premiere nights are late and taxing to the voice. There may be some chorus girls who get away with staying out into the wee hours and carousing in any number of unspeakable ways with no diminution of their skills, whatever they may be. There are no successful opera singers who can sustain such behavior for any length of time.

  No matter their swaggering boasts, even the most debauched among the tenors must rest to protect their instrument. Most singers actually lead quite disciplined, moderate lives because the instrument works far better in a healthy body, and no form of misbehavior is enjoyable enough to risk one’s career.

  All of that to say I went directly to bed when we finally returned from the theater. The police had not released us from the scene until well after the first round of papers and reviews had come in. Those, at least, were rapturous. The critics loved the opera, the cast, and the frisson of “two spectacularly beautiful and spectacularly talented blond divas in trousers singing their glorious best,” as the Republican Star put it. We were not to be missed, according to the Spectator. And the News of the City simply proclaimed its absolute adoration for us.

  It all had come, of course, with the taste of ashes, considering what had happened even as the critics were writing those sensational reviews.

  The police had been kind enough to question Marie and the Winslows first, so they could take their two wee ones home to bed, but that had made a longer night for the rest of us. By the time we got home, Tommy and I were both exhausted and heartsick. I washed away the blood Albert had left on my hands and face, drank a medicinal brandy, and collapsed on the pillows . . . and stayed there, quite appropriately asleep, until well into the midday, as was my habit. Not decadence, discipline.

  When I finally emerged from my slumbers, I was hungry and headachy, and hoping that the whole thing was a bad dream, a fantasy immediately dispelled by the voices coming from the parlor as I padded down the stairs.

  I had buttoned my purple plush wrapper over my nightclothes and stepped into matching slippers embellished with sweet pink flowers, leaving my hair still in its sleeping braid. At the sound of what seemed like a very serious conversation, I turned to go back upstairs and put on a suitable housedress, because of course I do not normally wear nightclothes around anyone but family.

  But there would be no escape.

  “Miss Ella!” called a familiar voice as a smallish, slightly pudgy redheaded man appeared from the parlor. Cousin Andrew the Detective. He’s actually Father Michael’s cousin, but everyone thinks of him that way.

  His precinct is close to our town house, so he would not normally be involved in the theater murder, but Father Michael had called him, and he had talked his way into helping the inquiry, offering his special expertise with the witnesses. The actual detectives in charge didn’t much care, assuming they had an open-and-shut case.

  “Hello, Detective Riley.” I bowed as graciously as I could manage. “You are not here merely to enjoy Mrs. G’s baked goods, are you?”

  “Sadly, no.” His eyes twinkled despite the mournful tone of his voice. “But delightful baked goods they are—almost as good as your reviews this morning. Your cousin, Mr. Gosling, and Mr. Dare have been helping me in my inquiries.”

  “Ah. Well, then, lead on.”

  I drew myself up to my full height and tried to convince myself the wrapper was just an unusually thick and warm tea gown as I proceeded into the parlor. It might have worked if Tommy hadn’t snickered at the sight of me.

  “Well, Heller, you can’t say you don’t look like the morning after,” he teased. He, of course, was perfect in a gray day suit, with not one strand of his dark auburn hair out of place, the wretch.

  Henry Gosling, our booking agent, had the grace to put down his muffin and blush. Preston just laughed, but his eyes were wearier than usual.

  Cousin Andrew gave me a courtly bow as I took a chair. While I’d woken hungry, the smell of actual food made my stomach lurch. Tommy poured a cup of coffee, and Preston offered it to me.

  “Gret, um, Mrs. Grazich has made some very tasty graham gem muffins,” Preston said.

  I took the coffee gingerly and most carefully did not smile at the slip, or the tiny bit of color in his cheeks, which softened his worn look. Preston was very quietly and respectfully courting our lovely widowed cook, after decades of flirting with barmaids. “Perhaps later. My stomach’s a bit dicey.”

  “Washing blood off in the wee hours will do that,” Cousin Andrew said, shaking his head.

  Tommy favored him with a glare. No matter whose cousin he was, he was not allowed to distress me.

  “It’s fine, Toms,” I said quickly. “And nothing more than what actually happened.”

  “You shouldn’t be drawn into this, Heller, and now, of all times.”

  Cousin Andrew shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry, Tom, but I’m afraid you’re all in it already.”

  “It’s our company, after all,” I replied quietly. “I know. How is Mr. Reuter?”

  “As well as can be expected. Michael is visiting him, but I doubt spiritual comfort will help much. He’s likely to get the chair.” Cousin Andrew did not sound happy about it. Like Father Michael, and many other enlightened people these days, he has moral concerns with capital punishment.

  I wondered if there was more to it than that. Some detectives, and highly intelligent Andrew Riley might well be one of them, are very suspicious of overly easy cases.

  I sipped my coffee gingerly as the others watched me with varying degrees of concern. Henry looked particularly distressed, his normally amiable round face drawn into sharper lines.

  “Miss Ella, I am so sorry,” the agent began. “You know we’ve been working to do a much better job at checking the bona fides—”

  I shook my head at the reference to a very unpleasant tenor who’d slipped through his usually diligent vetting a few months ago. “I’m not blaming you, or your son-in-law.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll take some muffins back to the office, of course,” I added as evidence of goodwill. He’s powerfully fond of Mrs. G’s efforts, especially since his own Mrs. G—Gosling—has banned most treats, in hopes of banishing his small pa
unch.

  “Someday, we may lure Mrs. G away from you.”

  Preston’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at Henry, and the agent quickly became very interested in his coffee.

  “Now, about last night, please?” Cousin Andrew is not unused to the rather scattershot conversation at our house, but it can be irritating to a commonsensical copper.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Ah, I know what to expect anytime I come here.” The detective put another muffin on his plate. “Let’s start with how you came to hire Mr. Reuter.”

  Henry took that and restrained himself from another gem. “I auditioned several bassos and bass-baritones and narrowed it down to three, whom I presented to the company.”

  “And how did you choose, Miss Ella?”

  “We actually hired all three. One, Eamon Morrissey, is very young and not really ready for a leading role, despite a magnificent voice. He’s playing several small parts and understudying the male second lead, Neville.”

  Cousin Andrew took a thoughtful bite of his muffin and nodded.

  “The second one, Ruben Avila, has tremendous presence and is really a better swordsman than Albert. He’s playing Neville and understudying Richard, with the understanding that he’ll go on a few times during the run.”

  “All the time now,” the detective observed.

  “He seemed quite happy with the opportunity as it was.”

  “All right. So why was Albert the choice for Richard?”

  “The voice. He’s just got that tiny bit more polish than Ruben . . . even though Ruben may eventually be the better performer.”

  Tommy smiled. “Can you tell she argued for Ruben and I convinced her we should give the part to Albert?”

  “No?” Cousin Andrew twinkled. “All right. So none of your Richards knew each other before the show?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, “other than the vague way we all know each other in our world.”

  “Eamon and Albert may have been better acquainted,” Tommy cut in. “I think they’re from the same parish, so they would likely have had some connections.”

  “I’ll check.” The detective made a note. “Have you ever heard of Florian Lutz?”

  “The victim?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Tommy and I shook our heads. The name Lutz was vaguely familiar, for some reason, but I was certain that neither of us had ever known a Florian. Preston, though, put down his cup with a contemplative expression.

  “What?” Cousin Andrew studied him closely.

  “Played for the Brooklyn Superbas a season or two ago and got traded to Cleveland.”

  “Not the Spiders,” I began. The Cleveland Spiders are universally acknowledged as the worst professional baseball team in the nation. Even by their own (dwindling) fans.

  “Yes.” Preston took another graham gem and just turned it in his fingers. “I’m afraid the poor boy had his hell on earth, and no need of your Richard to send him there.”

  “Rather a strong description of a season with the Spiders, Pres,” Tommy reproved.

  “Even if quite possibly true,” I contributed.

  Preston glared at us both. “Not playing for the Spiders, you two. His wife was murdered while the two of them were in Cleveland.”

  Tommy and I just shut up. Nothing to say to that. Especially since it quite likely reminded Preston of his own loss: his wife and child, who died in a cholera outbreak nearly thirty years ago.

  Cousin Andrew nodded. “Hell on earth, indeed.”

  “I don’t remember all the details. I’ll look at the clips in the morgue.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stop looking like bad kiddies.” Preston shook his head at us. “You couldn’t know.”

  “Still.” I patted Preston’s hand. “It was unkind. Even to the wretched Spiders.”

  “And you try so very hard never to be unkind,” he replied, squeezing my hand for a second. “You’re good kids, both of you.”

  “But sadly, not much help.” Cousin Andrew bit back a smile at the description of Toms and me and our complaisant reaction to it. “I don’t know what else I might glean from you at the moment. I’m sure I’ll be back.”

  “Just helping the Broadway precinct make the case?” Tommy asked.

  “Something like that.”

  He did have some misgivings about the apparently obvious killing. But he would never say anything to us, so we would do better to leave him to it.

  “Well, when you return, Mrs. G will make you something nice,” I promised.

  “I can only hope. Someday, I must trouble to find myself a wife.”

  “Many people do just fine without one,” Tommy pointed out.

  “Maybe. But I’m pretty sure I’m the marrying kind. If only I could convince Miss Katie McTeer of that.”

  “Really?” I asked. Like many maiden ladies, I love a little matchmaking. “Does Miss McTeer enjoy the opera?”

  Cousin Andrew colored a bit. “I believe she does.”

  “Well, tell me when she’d like to come, and we’ll see to it that you have good seats and meet the cast backstage.”

  Tommy just chuckled. “Of course we will.”

  “Thank you, Miss Ella. I probably should decline, being an officer of the law and all.”

  “What?” I asked, with wide, innocent eyes. “There’s a problem with a close family friend coming to see us?”

  Cousin Andrew twinkled again. “Not at all.”

  Preston laughed. “Kid, you take the cake.”

  “Cake.” I sighed. “I always crave cake during a run. And nobody wants a Romeo who looks like Brünnhilde.”

  Tommy grinned. “Soon enough, we’ll finish the New York run, and you can have your cake . . . and head to London, too.”

  “They do have very good cake in London.” I remembered something involving whipped cream and gooseberries at a tearoom near the British Museum.

  “It’s not cake you’re going to London for.”

  Henry and Cousin Andrew, thankfully, seemed merely puzzled by Tommy’s comment.

  Preston, who knew and approved, smiled wisely. “It doesn’t matter where you find the cake, kid, as long as it’s the right one.”

  Soon after, Cousin Andrew took his leave, and we flew into a whirlwind. There was no time to sit and discuss matters, with so much to do. Ruben had started his vocal rehearsal for the night while I was still asleep, and now we had to get down to the theater and walk him through.

  But first, I had to spend a few minutes with the other important member of the family.

  “Love the birdie!” I called as I stepped into the rehearsal studio, formerly the attic of our town house, carrying a generous bowl of seeds.

  Montezuma, my Amazon parrot, glared down from the rafters at me. He was clearly feeling neglected between the late night and the morning upheaval. “Sing for birdie.”

  “All right, just a little. I’m singing tonight, and I can’t risk a bad night for the paying customers to please you.”

  “Paying customers!” he mimicked, giving me another hard look. “Sing for birdie.”

  I complied with some simple scales, and that was all he wanted. The point was to make me do something for him, not whether it was anything exciting. As I started the second run, he flew down, and I held my hand out and let him light on my finger.

  He joined in, and we sang through a little light vocalization, which I would have needed at some point in the day, anyway. After I finished, I stroked his bright green head and put the bowl of seeds down for him.

  “I’ve got a long day, Montezuma, but I’ll be home more tomorrow.”

  “Home tomorrow!” Montezuma replied, and from the look in his eyes, I knew he wasn’t just mimicking.

  “I’ll do my best, birdie.”

  Montezuma had come with the house—the old importer who sold it to us had been unable to take him along to retirement in his daughter’s home—and the bird had soon decided he liked both Tommy and me just fine.
As long as we were generous with seeds, carrots and, most importantly, attention.

  The bird even enjoyed the road or, more accurately, the train. He’d probably been the happiest member of the company during our recent stand in San Francisco, though he’d been easily soothed with grapes and a good lullaby. Tommy and I had required quite a bit more to compensate for missing our dear friends for weeks on end. Mostly long walks around the lovely Paris of the West for him and long baths in the hotel suite’s deep claw-foot tub for me.

  In any case, I was already running late because I’d dawdled with Montezuma, as if it weren’t a serious and important day. I stopped in my bedroom on the floor below the attic, and scrambled into some rehearsal clothes, with a long coat to cover the breeches. As I dashed down to the kitchen to grab something to eat, I heard the sounds of Tommy rummaging in his office, probably looking for information to help Cousin Andrew.

  While we share the town house, it’s only one of several properties we own together. We’ve invested the proceeds of our tours wisely, including setting up his mother, who is my aunt Ellen, and the youngest cousins in a brownstone not far away. But the town house is much more than an investment. It’s a happy home, and proof of how far we’ve come from the tenements of the Lower East Side. In addition to the comfortable, book-filled downstairs rooms and the studio on top, we each have a floor to ourselves. Unthinkable luxury to people who grew up living cheek by jowl in tiny spaces.

  Admittedly, we have mostly unused guest quarters on each floor, but day by day we have privacy and space most New Yorkers of any social class can only dream of. The thought was a good reminder of how fortunate we truly are, a fact too easy to forget when in the midst of life’s maelstrom.

  Belowstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. G was packing a basket, with Preston sitting at the table, drinking coffee.

  They both turned a little pink when I walked into the room. Despite being a widow with two mostly grown children, Greta Grazich can’t be much past forty, and she’s blessed with a smooth peaches-and-cream complexion and the same ashy fair hair Marie has. She wears hers in a crown of plaits around her head. “Miss Ella, you really must take care of yourself.”