Bantam of the Opera (3 page)

“Hell wouldn't hold him either, so don't worry about it,” counseled Renie as the cousins finally collapsed at the kitchen table. “Jeez, I don't envy you the next two weeks with this crew. You're right; it's a good thing Joe won't be around for most of the time. If it were Bill, he'd have to put himself in therapy. But I'm glad I saw Pacetti up close. Briefly.”

Splitting a can of Pepsi between them, Judith shoved a glass at Renie. “At least the RV is out of here. I guess the driver stays at a motel.”

“I'd forgotten that Pacetti won't fly,” said Renie, removing the lid of Judith's sheep-shaped cookie jar and extracting a couple of date bars. “He goes everywhere by ship, train, or RV. He insists it not only cuts down on risk, but on overusing his voice. The jet plane has ruined many a voice, according to him. Too many engagements.”

Judith, who was not as serious an opera buff as Renie, inclined her head. “It makes sense, I guess. I wonder why they didn't take the train from San Francisco.”

Renie gave a little shrug and munched on a date bar. “Schutzendorf probably couldn't fit in a sleeping compartment. Jeez, coz, he's almost as big as Dan!”

“Nobody is as big as Dan,” remarked Judith in reference to her first husband, “except a tow truck. As you recall, Dan weighed over four hundred pounds when he blew up.”

“Right.” Renie ate the second date bar, causing Judith to marvel, as she always did, at her cousin's appetite and how she not only could avoid weighing four hundred pounds, but remain relatively slim. “Still, you'd think Schutzendorf wouldn't have been exactly comfy in that RV. But then I didn't get to see the interior.”

“It's probably plush,” said Judith, on the alert for signs that her newly ensconced guests were stirring overhead. She got up and went to the refrigerator. The old schoolhouse clock's hands pointed to precisely five o'clock. “I've got chicken liver pâté and crackers, calamari, salami, olives, three kinds of Italian cheese, and something awful with anchovies. According to the opera people, these are a few of his favorite things.”

“Mine, too,” said Renie, “except for the calamari. You might as well eat rubber bands.”

“You probably have,” Judith noted dryly, hauling the pâté mold and a tray of appetizers out onto the counter. “Only Mr. Plunkett drinks sherry. The rest prefer wine except for Tippy de Caro, who is a solid gin guzzler. Surprise. Are you sticking around or just polishing off the date bars?”

“Huh?” Renie, literally caught with her hand in the cookie jar, gave Judith a faintly sheepish look. “No, I've got to go home to fix dinner. It's after five. I'm famished.”

“No kidding,” said Judith.

Renie wore her middle-aged ingenue expression. “No kidding. Being a voyeur is hard work. Ask Arlene.”

Judith didn't have to. Arlene Rankers was in the entryway, waving a lacy white negligee. “How did
this
get on my clothesline?” she demanded.

“Ask Carl?” Judith retorted.

But Arlene was in no mood for mirth. “It fell out your window. What kind of people have you got staying here, Judith?”

Judith started to answer, but she wasn't sure she really knew.

“N
OW WAIT A
minute,” said Judith, taking the silken garment from Arlene. “How did this end up on your clothesline out back? The only windows on that side of the house are along the hallway and we almost never open them unless it gets to be over ninety. The rest of the windows facing you are down here or on the third floor of the family quarters.”

Arlene lifted her chin and sniffed. “I know that. Haven't I run this place while you've been away? I daresay I know every inch of Hillside Manor as well as I know my own house.”

Judith didn't doubt it for a minute. Arlene Rankers was as curious as she was kind. And she had indeed taken over the B&B while Judith and Joe were on their honeymoon in Oregon the previous summer. She and Carl had lived next door to the Grover house for almost thirty years, and were more than good neighbors. They were also cherished friends.

Arlene gave a toss of her red-gold curls. “If you must know, that saucy little item landed in the hedge, then blew into the backyard before I could get it. There's quite a breeze outside. It feels as if Indian Summer is over.”

Renie, who had been about to make her exit, lingered long enough to examine the negligee, too. It was short, the European equivalent of a size eight, with a lace bodice and trim. The label was in Italian. “Mrs. Pacetti hasn't been a size eight since she was ten,” remarked Renie. “Years old, that is.”

“Tippy could be an eight,” said Judith. “It sure doesn't belong to Schutzendorf.” Wearing a puzzled expression, she took the negligee back from Renie. “Why throw your nightclothes out of a window that isn't in your room? I mean, even if Tippy dropped it accidentally from her room, it would have to have sailed over the top of the house and landed on the other side in the hedge.”

“People do the strangest things,” commented Renie in farewell. “See you, coz, Arlene.” The screen door banged.

“She's right,” agreed Judith, carefully folding the negligee and putting it on the kitchen counter. “Did I ever tell you about the guy—he was an aerospace engineer—who set one of those windup dogs outside his room for protection? Or the woman who booked the whole B&B for herself and her friends, who all turned out to be inflatable dolls?”

Arlene, who had mothered five children, didn't turn a hair. “There's no accounting for people. By the way, who belongs to that gray car that was parked in front of the Steins' house? It's gone now, but I didn't recognize it.”

The question was typical of Arlene. Carl, as the block watch captain, had long ago delegated his responsibilities to his wife, who had been watching the block long before the term was invented. “I don't know,” replied Judith. “A friend of the Steins, I suppose.”

But Arlene shook her head. “They're in Mexico. Anyway, a man was sitting in it. Just sitting.” Her blue eyes shot Judith a meaningful look.

“That RV was enough to draw anybody's attention,” said Judith. “It was probably somebody who just happened to drive by and got curious.” Rummaging in the liquor cabinet, she glanced over her shoulder at Arlene. “Do you
want to stay and help with the cocktail hour?” Judith didn't mind asking for help; Arlene often assisted in the catering duties that were an offshoot of the B&B's hospitality services. Judith also knew that—like Renie—her friend and neighbor would love to get a close-up view of the new arrivals.

But Arlene reluctantly demurred. “I've got ducks in the oven. Mugs and her husband are coming for dinner. If you need any extra help during the next few days, call me. Where's Phyliss Rackley?” Arlene's head swiveled around the kitchen as if she thought Judith might have stashed her cleaning woman behind one of the appliances.

“Phyliss will be here Monday,” replied Judith. “Her lumbago is acting up. The damp, you know.”

“Damp?” Arlene sniffed. “We haven't had rain since Labor Day. Really, sometimes I think Phyliss is an old fraud.”

“She
is
a bit of a hypochondriac,” admitted Judith. “But when she works, she works hard.”

“She should. You pay her enough.” Arlene caught herself quickly. “I mean, I assume you do. You're such a generous person.”

Visions of Arlene scrutinizing Hillside Manor's bank ledgers flitted through Judith's mind. No matter; she had few secrets from Arlene, though not always for lack of trying. After Arlene had hurried off to baste her ducks, Judith went into the dining room to get the cocktail glasses from the breakfront. The long oak table was already set for breakfast, except for the plates. A white linen cloth, matching napkins in Grandma Grover's silver rings, Judith's own flatware, and two golden chrysanthemum plants awaited the morning meal. Judith and Joe would, as usual, eat in the kitchen.

Unless he was working on a difficult case, Joe arrived home by six. In the latter stages of his first marriage, he had got in the habit of staying at work until 8:00
P
.
M
., or even later. Vivian Flynn had never fancied herself as a cook. Fortunately, Joe was fairly handy around a stove.
He was also well acquainted with some moderately priced restaurants. Judith, who had constantly fought Gertrude over her mother's outmoded notion of eating “supper” at 5:00
P
.
M
., now found herself trying to convince her new husband that six-thirty, maybe even seven, was not an outrageously early time to serve dinner. Joe was trying to conform.

Judith had just finished placing the appetizers and beverages on the round cherrywood table in the living room when the first of her current guests came down the front staircase. Winston Plunkett had exchanged his gray pin-striped suit for gray slacks, gray sweater, and a white shirt. With his pale face, he looked so colorless that Judith had an urge to sweep him up, like a dust bunny.

“Mr. Plunkett,” said Judith in her most outgoing manner, “I hope everything is satisfactory for you and the others.”

Plunkett's narrow chin dropped toward his chest in a gesture of assent. “Very nice. Except for the furniture.”

Judith stared. “The furniture?” Certainly it was an eclectic collection of pieces, spanning four generations of Grovers. But basically it was good stuff, solid, handsome and well kept. “What's wrong with it?”

Plunkett cleared his throat. His entire being seemed quite stiff. “Mr. Pacetti says it's dangerous. Sharp corners. Heavy. Dark.”

It was true that Mario Pacetti's guest room contained most of the Victorian pieces Judith had left in what had first been her grandparents', and later her parents', bedroom. They matched, they fit, and most guests exclaimed at the old-fashioned comfort. “Does he want to change rooms?” Judith inquired.

“No, no,” Plunkett replied with a mournful air. “At least the front bedroom is over the porch. The other rooms all seem to have a straight drop to the ground.”

Puzzled by the business manager's attitude, Judith proffered the appetizer plate. “I'm afraid,” she apologized, “I don't understand the problem.”

Plunkett declined food, but gazed wistfully at the sherry. Judith caught his look and poured out a glass. “Mr. Pacetti is very accident-prone,” explained Plunkett. “Perhaps you've read in the opera magazines about some of the…incidents?”

Judith hadn't. Running her own business barely gave her time to get through the daily newspaper. It had been years since she'd subscribed to
Opera News
. One of her greatest laments was how little time she could spend on leisure reading. As a former librarian, she often felt she was betraying her calling.

Sipping at his sherry, Plunkett appeared to unbend a bit. “Two years ago, in Buenos Aires, during the triumphal procession, the wheel fell off his chariot when he was singing Radames in
Aïda
. He broke three ribs. Six months later, in Paris as Don José, he bent over to pick up the flower that Carmen had dropped and threw his back out. At La Scala last year, there was a problem with the door in the scene outside Rigoletto's house. The Gilda couldn't get it opened for the Duke, and when she finally did, it smashed right into Mr. Pacetti. He broke his nose, a terrible thing for a singer. Last winter at the Met, in the second act of
Tosca
…” Plunkett's eyelids drooped. “Really, I hate to go on. I'm not even mentioning the things that happen to the poor man off the stage. It's no wonder he won't risk flying.”

“Well.” Lost in thought, Judith caught herself almost violating her hostess code by sampling the calamari. Quickly, she clamped both hands to her sides. “I hope he's insured,” she remarked, though the thought was more for herself than Pacetti. She might do well to call her agent in the morning and up her liability. She hadn't checked into her coverage since opening the B&B almost three years earlier.

“Oh, yes,” Plunkett assured her. “Mr. Pacetti carries policies that cover all sorts of contingencies. Accidents. Illness. Death. Even,” he added with what Judith thought was a touch of grim pleasure, “murder.”

“My goodness,” breathed Judith, but before she could say anything else, she heard the thundering charge of Herr Schutzendorf on the stairs.

Schutzendorf's large form literally created a breeze as he entered the living room. Pouncing on the hors d'oeuvres, he gobbled up several pieces of cheese, a scoopful of chicken liver pâté, and a dozen crackers. “
Vat?
No vurst? At breakfast, maybe?”

Judith winced. Her morning menu was aimed at Mario Pacetti's gastronomic tastes: eggs fried inside thick slabs of Italian bread topped with slices of red pepper, spicy sausages, freshly squeezed orange juice, sun-dried tomatoes, rolls, and coffee. “Saturday I'll do bratwurst,” Judith promised, mentally calculating the cost at Falstaff's Market. Even at three times the usual fee, Judith was beginning to wonder if she'd show a profit from this particular group of hearty eaters. “I'll fix
grössita
, too. It's a family favorite.”

Schutzendorf beamed at Judith. “You're German,
ja?
”

“My grandmother was,” replied Judith. “Her parents came from Baden-Baden.”

“Ah! Beautiful country! Me, I'm from Hamburg. Big city. Industrial. Port. Birthplace of Brahms and Mendelssohn. And me. But I am merely…
Schutzendorf!
”

“Right,” murmured Judith as Schutzendorf poured white wine with a lavish hand. “I've been there. Briefly.” In Judith's opinion, Hamburg looked like a very old Pittsburgh. Except, it occurred to her, she'd never been to Pennsylvania—unless she'd slept through it on the train to New York. Though Judith had a logical mind, her sense of geography was sometimes skewed. “How do you like the Pacific Northwest?”

“Beautiful, like Bavaria,” enthused Schutzendorf between gulps of Riesling. Judith was reminded of a Saint Bernard, slurping out of a water trough. “Only taller. Your mountains, I mean. The Alps in Bavaria are not so high.”

Winston Plunkett had somehow managed deftly and discreetly to insert himself between Judith and Schutzendorf.
“This is Mr. Schutzendorf's first visit to this area. He had a meeting in San Francisco and thought it would be pleasant to journey with our little group up the coast. It's such a leisurely way to travel, though there was no chance to do any fly-fishing as I'd hoped. It's my passion,” Plunkett added in a self-deprecating manner. “Still, driving permits a much better view of the scenery.”

“Right,” said Judith again, wondering why the usually voluble Herr Schutzendorf couldn't speak for himself. Indeed, Plunkett wasn't yet finished.

“This also gives Mr. Schutzendorf the opportunity to hear Mario Pacetti sing in person, on the stage. As a rule, he usually only hears the recording sessions. He misses the glory of a live, total performance.” Plunkett's gray eyes slid in Schutzendorf's direction. Judith could have sworn that the business manager's gaze held a touch of malice.

“
Ja, ja
,” agreed Schutzendorf, draining his glass. “Always the studio, no costumes, no sets, just the music. Amazing music, but…how you say?…fragmented. Make no mistake, I love the voices. My first wish was to be a singer.”

It occurred to Judith that Schutzendorf certainly had sufficient volume; perhaps he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. “Was your family musical?”

Schutzendorf ruffled his beard, rich brown, streaked with gray. “My family had various talents. My father wished me to become like my great-uncle, the famous Emil Fischer. I learned much by studying his works, but I had no aptitude there, either. Instead, I went into business, after the war. I work very hard, twenty years ago I start up my own record company. Now we are famous, too, and Pacetti is Cherubim's greatest star, unparalleled. No other one can touch his sales. Or talent,” he added hastily.

A piercing laugh of derision floated from the staircase landing. “Ha! You know who disputes that claim, Herr Schutzendorf,” said Amina Pacetti, descending the last three steps into the entry hall and moving in quick little movements toward the living room. “Inez Garcia-Green
would argue that point until her tongue fell off.” She stopped on the threshold, as if inspired. “I wish it would. Then she could not sing. Ha-ha!”

Judith recalled that Inez Garcia-Green, who was almost as legendary a singer as Mario Pacetti, was scheduled to sing Violetta in
Traviata
. It struck Judith as extremely good fortune that the local opera company had been able to secure two such luminous stars.

“Actually,” said Judith in a mild tone, “I'm thrilled that we're going to hear both your husband and Garcia-Green. Not to mention Sydney Haines, the baritone. I understand that he's one of the new American stars.”

Amina Pacetti dismissed Judith's remarks with a wave of her hand before finally entering the room and snatching up half a dozen slices of cotto salami. “An American! How they maul the language! As for Inez, she is in the decline! She ages. It happens faster with women than with men.”