Bantam of the Opera (11 page)

“Oh, probably,” chirped Tippy. “I remember when my Aunt Willa died and I thought I'd never stop bawling. But a couple of hours later, I was at the mall, scoping guys. You just have to be strong.”

Schutzendorf glowered at Tippy. Plunkett wiped his eyes with a white handkerchief. Judith was relieved to
hear the doorbell ring. Excusing herself, she hoped it was Renie, making a rare appearance at the front, rather than the back door.

To Judith's surprise, Woodrow Price stood on the porch, wearing a navy blue all-weather jacket over maroon sweats. His tan Nissan was parked in front of the nurse's beige compact.

“Woody!” Judith gave her husband's partner a warm hug. “Come in! I haven't seen you since the Labor Day picnic. Speaking of labor, how's your wife? Two weeks to go, right?”

Woody smiled, revealing very white teeth. His skin was the color of cocoa, his walrus mustache was jet black, and his manner, as ever, was stolid, taciturn, and somehow disarming. “November 6 is the due date. Sondra's pretty uncomfortable.”

“I'll bet.” Judith ushered Woody inside, noting that he seemed a bit reluctant to follow her. She paused in the entry hall and cocked a quizzical eye in his direction.

Woody inclined his head toward the living room. “Your guests?” Judith nodded. Woody pointed to the front parlor. “Could we go in there?”

“Sure,” said Judith, leading the way. The door that led into the living room was already shut; Judith closed the entry hall door behind them. Indicating one of the petit-point covered chairs, Judith sat down in its mate. As always, the cozy room seemed to wrap its arms around her. The small stone fireplace was flanked by converted gaslights. An English hunting print hung over the mantel, which was adorned by a pair of seventeenth century pewter candlesticks unearthed at a garage sale, a sterling silver crucifix Judith had bought at the Vatican in '64, and an arrangement of dried autumn flowers from Nottingham's. A brass warming pan of the same vintage as the candlesticks hung at one side of the hearth, where a trio of carved pumpkins showed off happy grins.

“Who's here?” Woody asked, keeping his voice low.

Judith told him, lamenting that her guests were probably
going to drive her insane before they all finally departed. “At least Schutzendorf intends to leave in the next couple of days,” she concluded. The German record magnate could be heard bellowing in the adjoining room. “That will bring the noise level down to almost bearable.”

But Woody was frowning. “Maybe he'll leave—and maybe not.” Noting Judith's look of apprehension, Woody gave her a weak smile. “That's why I drove my own car here. I don't want your guests to know I'm a policeman. An autopsy is being done on Mr. Pacetti tomorrow.” He paused, his gaze roaming to the big armoire where Judith stored extra linens, books, records, and tapes. “If you weren't married to Joe, I couldn't tell you this, of course.” His dark eyes were now fixed on Judith's tense face. “In fact, if he were here, I wouldn't do it. Probably he wouldn't either, unless he felt it was absolutely necessary.”

“Right.” Judith compressed her lips. She wished Woody would get to the point.

“A routine check of the opera house was made last night. An empty vial of Strophanthin was found backstage.”

“What's that?” Judith had never heard of it.

“It's like digitalis or digitoxin, usually used in the treatment of heart patients,” Woody explained in his careful manner. “It's much more common in Europe than it is in this country. Like most drugs, if too much is taken, it can be fatal. Given the fact that Mr. Pacetti had no history of heart trouble—and in fact had just had a physical last winter—his death from cardiac arrest was unexpected.”

“But it happens,” Judith put in, feeling a need to buffet herself against what was coming. “Renie's dad, Uncle Cliff, seemed in perfect health and just keeled over from a massive coronary.”

Woody cocked his head at Judith. “He wasn't in his forties, was he?”

“No,” Judith admitted, “he was over seventy. But he'd had a physical a month before he died.”

Woody nodded, his dark eyes sympathetic. “Yes, but
even an EKG can't predict if you're going to have a heart attack. The point is, Pacetti's business manager—Plunkett, is it?—described his employer as a man who was concerned, even overly concerned, with every facet of his well-being. He was a great singer who pampered himself. So when he drops dead virtually in the middle of a performance, people are going to ask questions. That's why our men took a look around the opera house. Sort of guarding our own backsides, as it were. If your Uncle Cliff had five million dollars' worth of engagements in the next three months, had just signed a fifteen-million dollar recording contract, was going to get paid another two million for an Easter TV special on PBS,
and
was only forty-seven years old when he keeled over, wouldn't your family have asked a few questions, too?”

“Uncle Cliff couldn't sing a lick,” murmured Judith.

“There you go. Anyway,” continued Woody, still keeping his voice down, “finding that Strophanthin vial raised even more questions. Nobody laid claim to it, which made
us
ask questions. An analysis of Pacetti's stomach contents will give us some answer.”

For a moment, Judith reflected on Woody's words. The rain pattered against the small bay window; leaves from the maple tree in the front yard fluttered to the ground; a pair of squirrels leaped from branch to branch; and in the living room, Herr Schutzendorf rumbled on.

“Where,” Judith asked at last, “did they find this stuff?”

“The Strophanthin?” Woody paused again, apparently considering how far he could go without violating law enforcement ethics. “Actually, it wasn't backstage. I misled you a bit there. It was onstage. The long table, with the food and drink? The bottle was lying there, empty.”

Judith's mind flew back to Act I of
Traviata
. There was something she should remember, but it proved elusive. Later, it would come. So much had happened in the past few hours; it seemed like more than a week instead of less than a day since she and Renie had settled themselves into their front row center seats in the first balcony.

“Could Pacetti have drunk the stuff onstage?” she asked, still feeling faintly stunned by Woody's news.

“Maybe. It works very fast. But,” Woody inquired more of himself than of Judith, “how could anyone be sure he would choose a certain glass? There were dozens of them on that table. That's assuming, of course, that Pacetti was the intended victim. And that's also assuming he
was
a victim. I'm telling you this just in case.” Woody's face grew very grave. “If Mario Pacetti was poisoned, it's possible—not probable, of course—but possible that the killer may be staying under your roof. I couldn't
not
tell you and ever look Lieutenant Flynn in the eye again.”

Judith gave Woody her most ironic gaze. “Gee, thanks, Woody. And all this time, I thought we were
pals
.”

If it were possible, Woody appeared to be blushing. “I don't mean it that way—I'm in a peculiar position. You see, none of this is my business in the first place. I'm not even assigned to the investigation.”

“What?”
Judith gaped at Woody. “Well, why not? I don't want some run-of-the-mill bozo from homicide running this show! If Joe's not around, why not you?”

Still looking embarrassed, Woody was getting to his feet. “Honest, Mrs. Flynn, there are plenty of really fine police personnel on the force. Right here on your beat, Prentice and Cernak have an excellent reputation…”

“Hold it!” Judith had grabbed Woody by his all-weather jacket. “Don't fob those two off on me! I've got enough problems already without having Ms. Stiff-as-a-Board and The Man Who Can Only Grunt for Himself being a back-up for Homicide. If it
is
a homicide,” she added hastily. “Can't you put yourself in charge, and some of your own people Woody?
Please?
”

Woody seemed unable to look Judith in the eye. “Well…I…ah…as you say, maybe it isn't anything, maybe somebody just dropped that bottle and forgot…With Lieutenant Flynn out of town, I'm pretty tied up for the next couple of weeks…”

Abruptly, Judith released Woody. “Oh, well, I under
stand.” She gave him her most charming smile. “I'm being silly. By the way, did you ever get a music expert to identify those notes on the sheet of paper?”

Woody's face showed both surprise and relief. “Yes, in fact, I did.” He reached inside his jacket, apparently digging into an inner pocket. “Whoever did this said it wasn't too hard to figure out once he knew what the notes on the rock were from. Here, my Italian isn't so good.”

Judith stared at the small slip of paper.
“Si, egli è ver”
was written in small, but precise, letters. “My Italian isn't so good, either. What does it mean?”

“Something about ‘Yes, it's true.' If memory serves, it's Alfredo's second line in Act I of
Traviata
.” Woody Price, who knew almost as much about opera as he did about police procedures, hummed the phrase in his melodious baritone. “It's pitched too high for me, of course,” he added apologetically.

“Uh-huh,” responded Judith a bit absently. She tucked the little piece of paper inside the pocket of her dark green flannel slacks. “Sorry I was crabby. It's been a rough few days. Especially with Joe gone.” Again, she bestowed her sweetest smile on Woody.

“That's okay,” he smiled back. “I just wanted to make sure you understood what might be going on. We'll keep the patrol cars cruising, of course.”

Judith gave Woody a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.” She took hold of his jacket again, this time more gently. “And stop calling me Mrs. Flynn! You stood up for us at our wedding, remember? You and Sondra are practically family!”

Woody beamed. “We
will
be a family in about two weeks. All three of us.”

“That's right,” said Judith, walking him to the front door. “Give Sondra my best. And let us know as soon as the baby gets here, okay?”

“Sure,” agreed Woody, heading back out into the rain. “Only two weeks to go!”

Judith waved and smiled some more. She waited until
Woody had pulled away from the curb before going back inside. “Two weeks, my foot,” she muttered as she hurried upstairs. “First babies never come on time.” She kept climbing, all the way to the family quarters on the third floor. Tucked into the top drawer of her dressing table was the address and phone number of the hotel where Joe and Bill were staying in New Orleans. If Woody Price wanted to back off and wait for his baby to come, that was fine. But if Mario Pacetti really had been murdered, Judith was sure that the killer would be apprehended long before Sondra Price went into labor. Even as she dialed the hotel number in New Orleans, she knew that she just might end up having to help solve the crime herself.

And if she did, she wanted Woody Price at her side. In an off-key voice, Judith hummed a little Verdi as she waited for the hotel operator to come on the line. Judith knew Woody couldn't say no to Joe.

T
HE EXPLOSION OVER
the phone line had practically deafened Judith. Joe Flynn could not, would not, absolutely refused to believe that his wife had got mixed up in another murder. No, he had not seen the local newspapers or turned on the TV. He was off duty, out of town, recreating himself. There was nothing he needed to know except how to get from the Hyatt-Regency to Jackson Square, Goddammit.

When Joe finally stopped yelling into the receiver and his voice had dropped to an almost-normal level, he asserted that crime had got out of control back home, that nobody was safe any more, that the homicide rate had skyrocketed to unbelievable proportions, and that somebody ought to kick the police in the butt.

“Joe,” Judith had finally interjected, “you
are
the police, remember?”

Joe knew that, but he meant his superiors up the line. Or something. The weary sigh indicated he was finally coming to grips with reality. And after fulminating against tinkering with police department procedures, he agreed to call headquarters and request that Woody Price be put in charge of the investigation.

“I suppose it's logical,” he had grumbled. “Woody
knows something about music. Most of the other homicide detectives think
The Ring
is something around their bathtubs.”

Joe gave the usual cautions, though it was obvious from his tone that once Judith had the bit between her teeth, he knew she'd gallop straight for the finish line, heedless of danger. She, in turn, found out that he and Bill were enjoying themselves, having gone to mass at St. Louis Cathedral, taken a sight-seeing tour of the city, met the other conferees at a cocktail party in the hotel, and were now about to stuff themselves at Mr. B's Bistro. The convention would begin in earnest the following day. On a note of longing that was tinged with envy, Judith clicked Joe off, then dialed Renie.

“I suppose I'll have to offer to feed this crew tonight, if only because they're suffering from trauma,” said Judith after filling her cousin in and regretfully declining the invitation to dinner.

“Make something easy,” suggested Renie. “Like stew.”

It wasn't a bad idea. She had boneless sirloin in the freezer, enough vegetables in the fridge, and she could whip up some of Grandma Grover's dumplings. Arriving on the second floor, Judith decided to inquire after Mrs. Pacetti. Edna Fiske opened the door a crack, her long nose thrust at Judith like a buzzard's beak.

“How's the patient?” asked Judith, keeping her voice to a sickroom murmur.

“Resting,” replied Edna. She turned just enough to cast an eye in the direction of the bed.

The patient sat up. “
Dio mio
, my back, it is killing me! Rub, rub, please, Nurse! I agonize!”

Edna Fiske moved away from the door just enough so that Judith could squeeze into the room. “Really, Mrs. Pacetti, we've had one back rub already this afternoon,” Edna asserted in her no-nonsense voice. “I'm a registered nurse, not a masseuse. It would be much better for you if you tried to get out of bed and walk a bit. In fact, I must insist on it before the day is out.”

Sitting among the linens that Grandma Grover had embroidered with butterflies and roses, Amina Pacetti looked more distressed than ill. Without makeup, her skin was sallow. The usually well-coiffed golden hair hung limply around her shoulders. Given the fact that she had been recently—and shockingly—widowed, Judith felt Edna Fiske was being a trifle harsh with her patient.

“I was wondering if you feel like eating anything, Mrs. Pacetti,” Judith said, sympathy swimming in her black eyes. “I'm going to fix dinner for the others, and I thought you might like soup or some other light nourishment.”

Amina collapsed against the pillows, trailing a manicured fingernail down her cheek. “Oh—I have not the appetite. Hot tea, maybe. Or orange juice.”

Edna Fiske was hovering directly behind Judith. “I know the patient's preferences. I'll fetch it,” she said, and promptly left the room.

Judith sat down on a ladder-back chair that the nurse apparently had pulled up next to the bed. The bouquet Justin Kerr had brought sat on the dressing table, the exotic blooms jammed haphazardly into the cut-glass vase. Judith thought it looked as if it had been arranged by an uncoordinated chimpanzee. She couldn't help but wonder what had taken Kerr so long upstairs. But this was not the moment to speculate. “I can't tell you how sorry I am about your loss. I'm a widow, too.” Seeing Amina's curious expression, Judith hastily explained. “I mean, I was before I married Mr. Flynn. My first husband was only forty-nine when he died.”

“My Mario was forty-seven.” Amina's eyelids drooped. “He was a man of great genius. Did your husband have a gift?”

Thinking that Dan's greatest gift had been to avoid work, Judith gave a faint shake of her head. “Gift, no. Girth, yes. He weighed over four hundred pounds when he died.”

Unlike most people, Amina Pacetti didn't seem surprised at Judith's announcement. “That is large, yes. But
Mario was no small man. Two hundred and eighty in pounds, I believe. Perhaps that is what killed him.”

It could, of course. The excess weight had killed Dan, who had been at least half a foot taller than Pacetti. But Woody Price thought otherwise. Judith, however, would not say so to Amina Pacetti. At least not now. It was interesting, reflected Judith, that despite the purported threats, murder hadn't seemed to have entered the widow's mind.

“You're very fortunate to have someone as capable as Mr. Plunkett to look after your affairs,” Judith said, switching topics, lest she inadvertently give something away.

For the merest instant, Mrs. Pacetti's glance hardened. Or was it wary? Judith wasn't sure; the change had passed too swiftly. “Plunkett, yes, he is capable. He will see to everything. The requiem. The burial. The insurance.”

Judith's eyebrows raised slightly. Funeral and burial, yes, as Mrs. Pacetti would say. But insurance? It struck Judith as an odd, even tasteless, inclusion. But then she mustn't judge. Such matters had never occurred to her because Dan had no insurance. He couldn't qualify for a policy, and Judith had been left with nothing except social security for Mike until he turned eighteen. Obviously, Mrs. Pacetti was in a different league.

“It will be a moving occasion,” Amina was saying, as Judith mulled. “Flowers, so many flowers—my husband loved them, though they gave him the sneezes. I adore them, too—I worked in a flower shop when I was but a young girl. It is where I met Mario. So romantic!” She folded her hands and rested them against her cheek in an attitude of loving reminiscence. “Thus, we must have the very best, only the most beautiful. Lilies, hibiscus, jasmine, orchids—and what are those clusters of purple blooms you have around here? Red, too, and pink and yellow and even blue I once saw, with dark waxy leaves.”

Judith frowned. “On a stalk?”

“No, no. A bush. Huge, some of them, to the house-
tops.” Amina gestured with her hands. Her enthusiasm for the funeral decor seemed to improve her color.

“Oh! Rhododendrons,” said Judith. “They're the state flower. They grow wild in the woods, mainly pink, but only in the spring when the hybrids bloom.”

Amina sighed. “A pity. I would love those, whole shrubs of them, all over the altar in the cathedral at Bari. And the music—his favorite arias, or maybe the Verdi
Requiem
.” She cocked her head in concentration. “Who to sing, I wonder? Pavarotti? Carreras? Pons? Te Kanawa? Norman? We shall need four, then a conductor…let me think…”

Amina's thoughts were interrupted by Edna Fiske, who entered the room carrying a tall glass of orange juice. “That German is eating a ham,” said Edna, depositing the juice on the night table next to the bed. “He's a very large man and it's a very large ham, but I shouldn't think it would be good for his digestion.”

“Or for my budget,” murmured Judith, taking her leave. The ham was intended to last at least through midweek. Judith headed for the kitchen.

Herr Schutzendorf was indeed seated at the kitchen table, knife in one hand, fork in the other, assaulting Judith's bone-in ham. She approached him with a smile. “Here, let me carve that for you. It's tricky with that bone.” Judith reached out, but Schutzendorf pulled the ham closer, as if it were a cherished trophy.

“No trouble! Your cutlery is superb!” He beamed at Judith. “German, no?”

“Yes, Henckels,” sighed Judith. “I got the set on sale at La Belle Epoch two years ago.” She pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Schutzendorf, wondering how she could separate him from her ham. “What,” she inquired, by way of diversion, “will happen with the opera performances now that Mr. Pacetti is dead?”

Schutzendorf gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. “There is an understudy, the young American, Justin Kerr. He will sing amid greatness. Garcia-Green and Sydney
Haines. Let us hope he disports himself with brilliance. It could make or break his career.” Schutzendorf chuckled darkly.

“You've heard him sing?” asked Judith.

Schutzendorf wrinkled his nose and twitched his mustache. “No, I hear only…reports.” He spoke musingly, and a gleam of what might have been malice flashed in his eyes. Schutzendorf gobbled another hunk of ham. “Such big shoes he will have to fill! But Inez will help him with the gaps.” He chewed lustily.

Giving up hope of salvaging the ham from Schutzendorf's burly clutches, Judith decided to prod him for information. “Do you think that rock was meant to scare Mr. Pacetti?” She was careful not to mention the second missive; presumably, no one in the Pacetti party knew it existed.

Schutzendorf tipped his head from side to side, chomping away all the while. “Alfredo's notes…that is the clue. I should think yes, but not to be taken seriously. A joke, maybe. Who would want to frighten Mario Pacetti, eh? He is—excuse me, Frau Flynn—he
was
a great man. So someone teases him a little. It is not enough to scare him to death.”

Judith felt Schutzendorf was probably right. It was not enough. Killing Mario Pacetti had also required poison…

 

Phyliss Rackley arrived promptly at nine o'clock, her gray sausage curls sprouting all over her head and her squat figure draped in a pastel striped housedress. As usual, her slip showed and her sluggish blue eyes didn't miss a trick.

“Your last guest went to meet the Lord, huh?” said Phyliss, getting the vacuum cleaner out from the broom closet by the pantry. “I tell you, Mrs. McMonigle, you've got to stop serving real butter. Too much cholesterol. The last time I had mine tested, it was just under one hundred and eighty, which is pretty good for a woman of my age and poor constitution. My blood pressure was a hundred
and twenty-six over seventy-five. Just like a teenager.” She shook a stubby finger in Judith's face. “You know why? No drinking, no smoking, no carousing after hours. When the sun goes down, I spend my time with the Lord.”

Judith felt like saying that she didn't know how the Lord could stand it, but held her tongue. Phyliss's obsession with her health and her Pentecostal fervor would have driven Judith nuts a long time ago if she hadn't also been a top-notch cleaning woman.

“Now that doesn't mean I'm in perfect health,” Phyliss went on, speaking above the roar of the vacuum as she headed for the dining room. “Far from it. My varicose veins have been giving me fits, my sinuses are a mess, and I'm pretty sure I've got hammertoes. I'll find out next week when I see the doctor.”

Judith nodded, then slipped back into the kitchen. She'd made a big pot of beef stew the previous night, with potatoes, carrots, onions, and celery topped with fluffy dumplings. Tippy and Schutzendorf had eaten without restraint, Plunkett's appetite seemed to have revived, and even Amina Pacetti had condescended to having a tray brought up to her room. Edna Fiske had come down later to polish off the leftovers. Judith had fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich and an apple. It was time to restock at Falstaff's.

Judith was heading through the rain for her car when a battered pickup truck pulled into the driveway. As it came to a halt, several items fell out of the back end, including a big pail, a saw, and a small metal box. They clattered onto the wet concrete just as Skjoval Tolvang descended from the cab.

“Howdy-do-do-ya?” mumbled Tolvang, adjusting his grimy painter's cap on his full head of white hair. “You got a busted toolshed, ya?”

“Exploded, actually,” said Judith, who had forgotten that her Swedish carpenter was due so early. “Fireworks,” she explained. “But I don't want it merely reroofed. As I
explained to you on the phone the other day, I'd like to convert it into…”

“A doghouse,” Tolvang finished for her. He was tall and lean, with a spot of high color on each wrinkled cheek. “For your mother, ya, sure, youbetcha?”

Judith never knew whether Skjoval Tolvang was kidding or not. “Sort of,” she replied, a bit uneasily. “A small apartment is more what I had in mind. Can you give me an estimate?”

Tolvang took off his painter's cap and moved closer to the dilapidated toolshed. The rain was coming down quite heavily, the temperature had dropped into the low forties, and the wind had picked up again during the night. Despite the inclement weather, Tolvang wore only a light cotton long-sleeved coverall, its creases dark with the stains of hard work. He wore the same outfit in the summer. Tolvang seemed impervious to the elements.

“Okay,” he was saying as he walked into the toolshed and took out a metal tape measure. “You got a floor, you got no I beam. You sure as hell got no roof, py golly. You vant extension?”

“To within a yard or so of the birdbath,” answered Judith who'd already done some calculating. “Five, six feet, maybe?”

Tolvang was wielding his tape measure, but didn't bother to write anything down. He led the way outside, still measuring. “Five feet, seven and three-quarter inches. Let's call it five and a half.” He jabbed at the two-foot width of garden area between the toolshed and the grass. “What you got, wild dogs? Or raccoons?”