Bantam of the Opera (18 page)

“We got the report back on the thermos contents,” said Woody in his businesslike manner. “What was left of the tea had definite traces of Strophanthin.”

“Ah!” Judith beamed into the receiver. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

“Yes—and no,” said Woody. “The pathologist told me something that doesn't mesh. Strophanthin is deadly, all right, but one of the antidotes is strong tea.”

“Huh?” Judith screwed up her face.

“The pathologist doubts that there was a sufficient amount of Strophanthin in that vial to kill Pacetti if he was drinking a lot of tea. The residue in the thermos accounts for about a quarter of what was in the vial,” Woody went on. “It just doesn't jibe.”

Judith sat down on the kitchen stool, a hand to her temple. “I don't get it, Woody. The man died. Did he ingest the Strophanthin or didn't he? It
was
in the tea, after all.”

“But when was it put there?” Woody's question was phrased so that it sounded as if he were asking himself as well as Judith. “Why was the thermos brought from the opera house and buried in your backyard? There are a ton of places to ditch something at the opera house, including several dumpsters outside. It doesn't make sense.”

“I know.” Judith stared at the calendar posted next to the telephone. The notes she had scrawled all over it were a blur. No wonder she had a headache. Scooting to the edge of the stool, she reached for the bottle of aspirin she kept on the windowsill above the sink. “If Pacetti had been poisoned with the tea, then Amina would be the prime suspect. But if he wasn't…or if someone else had access to that thermos, either here or at the opera house…Hell's bells, Woody, I feel like I'm on a merry-go-round.” Judith popped two aspirin in her mouth and quickly poured herself a glass of water.

Woody gave a tight little laugh. “Tell me about it. I can't ask these so-called suspects to stick around much longer after tomorrow or the next day. They'll start to file complaints or threaten to sue or just plain get up and go. Like Ms. de Caro.”

“No sign of her, I take it?”

“None. She's disappeared into thin air.” A note of discouragement was creeping into Woody's voice.

Briefly, Judith mentioned Justin Kerr's meeting with Schutzendorf and the tenor's insistence upon secrecy about his earlier visit to Hillside Manor. She also told Woody that Justin had been driving a gray Ford.

“I think I'll do some homework on Mr. Kerr this evening,” said Woody, his mood perking up. “Sondra's at a baby shower, so I might as well work late.”

“Let me know if you find anything,” said Judith. “Like Tippy.”

An hour later, Amina Pacetti made her first foray into the living room since her husband's death. She wore a quilted robe of many colors, full makeup, and her hair was once again impeccably coiffed.

“I grow stiff,” she announced, going to the piano and playing a few chords. “You need to have this tuned. It's rather flat.”

Judith gave a nod of assent, but her mind was far from flats or sharps. Standing by the cushioned window seat a few yards from the piano, she racked her brain for an approach to the thermos question. At last, she picked up the evening paper, which was sitting on the coffee table.

“Have you seen the article in the
Times
tonight?”

Amina regarded the newspaper as if it were a plague warning. “No. Nurse Fiske asked if I wished to see it, but I declined. What should I need to learn? That my husband was most cruelly murdered? I know that.” Her gaze fell back on the piano keys. This time she played a series of minor chords.

Indeed, Melissa Bargroom and her coworker's news story was pretty basic. The article had appeared at the bottom of page one, since the morning paper and the electronic media had beat the
Times
to the punch with the homicide angle. The duo had walked the fine line of journalism, presenting only the barest facts. Melissa, however, had dug a little deeper into her knowledge of Pacetti's career and written a second piece for the arts and entertain
ment section. As far as Judith could tell, the recap contained nothing pertinent to his murder.

The newspaper having flunked with Amina, Judith opted for shock tactics. “I found your thermos. It was buried in the backyard.”

Amina slumped onto the piano bench. “What?”

Judith repeated her statement, noting that Amina's shock seemed genuine. “Where did you see it last?” asked Judith.

Amina brushed at her mouth, not noticing that she had smeared lipstick on her hand. “Oh…I'm not certain. I still had it with me when Mario went onstage. Then…I don't recall. I never thought about it again. How could I? My husband was dying!” She buried her face in her hands, but no sobs were forthcoming. Instead, she shook her head and swayed from side to side.

Judith held her own head, aware that the aspirin wasn't helping much. “I'm sorry, really I am. But it's so strange, finding the thermos in the garden. Someone must have taken it from the opera house. It was red, wasn't it?”

Amina nodded. “Madness!” she wailed through her fingers. “There is a madman loose! Am I next?”

Judith moved to Amina's side, but thought better of patting the other woman's shoulder. “The police are watching the house,” she soothed. “I saw a patrol car go by just a few minutes ago. Mrs. Pacetti, do you have any idea who sent that rock?” Once again, Judith was careful not to mention the second missive.

Amina's head jerked up. Her face looked blotchy and her eyes snapped. “Of course I do! Who else but Inez Garcia-Green?”

Judith stared. “Inez? How can you be so sure?”

Amina gave a shake of her shoulders. “Because she told me, that's how. She tells everything to everybody. She thinks I would tell the police and she would be arrested. But the police know. So why do they not take her away to prison? The woman's mouth should be shut. Then she
could not talk, or sing, and the world would be a better place. A curse on her!
Maledizione!
”

Edna Fiske stalked into the living room, her face set. “What's this? Too much excitement by far! Come, come, Mrs. Pacetti, it's back to bed for you. I warned you about eating that pasta.”

To Judith's surprise, Amina allowed Edna Fiske to lead her away, looking not unlike a child under the thumb of a stern governess. They had just disappeared when the phone rang. Judith answered it in the kitchen and beamed as she heard Joe's voice at the other end of the line.

“I just ate twenty-four oysters,” said Joe. “Will that make me sexy?”

“You
are
sexy, you nut,” said Judith, draping herself over the kitchen stool. “Where are you?” She could hear quite a bit of noise in the background.

“Delmonico's,” replied Joe. “Bill's at the next phone, listening to Renie crow about her hot new brochure. You caught any killers lately, or are you sitting back and letting Woody take the heat?”

“Woody's doing fine,” said Judith, not wanting to spend time or money with mundane details such as murder when she could be listening to Joe tell her how sexy he was. Or better yet, how sexy
she
was. “Miss me?”

“Like crazy,” said Joe. “I got so desperate last night, I tried to kiss Bill. He put me in therapy. Or was it in traction?”

The conversation moved on to the adventures of Lieutenant Flynn and Professor Jones in New Orleans. The weather was hot, humid, and occasionally rainy. The conference was informative, interesting, and enlightening. The food was terrific. They'd eaten French, Cajun, creole, even Chinese. They'd seen most of the sights, from Bourbon Street to Lake Pontchartrain. The hotel was great, right by the Superdome. Maybe they'd have time to get into the bayous. Or charter a fishing boat in the Gulf. Judith began to wonder when Joe had time to miss her. As she reluctantly hung up, she was well aware that he and Bill were
having a heck of a lot more fun in New Orleans than she and Renie were having back home. Judith called Renie to say as much, but got her cousin's answering machine. That seemed odd, since Renie had just been talking to Bill. Judith was still frowning in puzzlement when the back door banged.

“Open up,” shouted Renie. “I want to show you my brochure.”

“How'd you get here so fast?” asked Judith, letting her cousin in.

“You know Bill,” said Renie. “He hates talking on the phone almost as much as your mother does. As soon as he hung up, I raced over here to show you this little hummer. Ta-da!” Renie whipped the cancer center brochure out of her briefcase.

Judith admired it with appropriate awe. Indeed, it was a handsome piece, bearing the usual bold, yet tasteful, graphics of Serena Grover Jones. The cousins sat down at the kitchen table while Judith put on her glasses and flipped through the pages.

“I like the architecture,” remarked Judith. “It's got a nice, solid look.”

“Right,” agreed Renie, going for the cookie jar. “I tried to carry that feeling throughout the brochure. Hey, you haven't baked!” Her voice had an echo as she spoke into the empty container.

“I haven't had time, you goof,” said Judith. “Oh, here's the wing with the apartments. The rooms look pretty lavish. Did you do these sketches?”

“No, the architect did those.” Renie replaced the sheep's head lid on the jar. “I toured the present facility last summer. Even in the old annex, they've got a couple of suites that are quite nice. One of them has two bedrooms, a living room, even a small study. It's usually reserved for visiting brass or celebrity patients who…”

Judith dropped the brochure. Renie grimaced. “I hope you or Phyliss mopped today. I only have a dozen file copies of that, you klutz,” admonished Renie.

Reaching under her chair, Judith retrieved the brochure. “It's clean,” she asserted, waving her free hand at her cousin and suddenly looking excited. “Call me crazy, but I just had the weirdest idea. What if Pacetti, a world-class worrywart, had checked himself into the Henderson Center this past spring? Melissa said he canceled performances about then. And it was springtime when the Pacettis were here on their unscheduled visit. Is there any way you could check?”

Renie was scowling. “Yes, you're crazy. I think. Well…I've got pretty tight with their P.R. person. I could give it a try, but you'd have better luck using Woody.”

“Woody has a typical policeman's aversion to wild goose chases,” said Judith, getting up to fetch a couple of cans of pop from the refrigerator. “I have to admit this idea falls into that category. But if you could do some probing, it might help.”

“How?” Renie accepted a cold Pepsi. “Let's say you're right—heaven forbid—and Pacetti had cancer. Why kill him?”

“Lots of people survive cancer. Maybe he didn't have it but was afraid he did. Maybe it was Amina.” The excitement was fading. “It's a long shot, but the Pacettis had to stay somewhere if they were here last spring. It wasn't in a B&B, they don't seem to know anybody besides Dunkowitz, who wouldn't invite them back, and we know they hate hotels. Do you really think they'd park one of those luxury RVs out on the edge of town and sleep with the tourists?”

“Probably not,” admitted Renie. “But I think you're out on a limb on this one, coz.”

“Maybe,” said Judith, squinting at the list of donors on the last page. “Damn, I can't even read the boldface type. I think I'd better call Dr. Inouye tomorrow and make an appointment before I go blind. I haven't had my glasses changed since just before I opened the B&B.”

“Inouye's moved,” said Renie. “In fact, he's in the same
clinic as the Feldmans, next to the Children's Medical Center.”

“Then I probably can't afford him any more,” Judith lamented. “Speaking of my incipient poverty, was Tolvang still out there when you arrived?”

“No,” Renie answered. “I passed him on my way in. He only dropped two buckets off his truck as he clunked away toward the Counterbalance. Fortunately, both missed me.”

For the next half-hour, the cousins mulled over the latest developments in the murder case. Renie was troubled by the buried thermos, but not for the same reasons that had plagued Judith and Woody.

“I don't care whether the Strophanthin poisoned Pacetti or not,” said Renie. “Who else but the murderer would bury that thermos? Coz, that really tightens the circle. It's got to be one of your guests.”

Even though she'd had the same feeling all along, Judith blanched. Somehow, it was more terrifying to hear her worst fears voiced aloud, especially by someone else. Still, she had a quibble.

“Don't forget, Inez and Justin showed up after the murder. Either of them could have gone up to the second floor, used the back stairs, and slipped outside. They were here long enough to bury a dinosaur.”

“They didn't know the layout of the house,” Renie objected.

“They did if somebody told them. Look,” said Judith, pulling her chair closer and sketching imaginary happenings on the table, “let's say there are two people involved. The gray car shows up when the Pacettis arrive, scouting things. Justin Kerr, just for a good guess. Somebody is inside—let's say Tippy, for another guess—and waves a nightie out the window—then drops it accidentally. It's a signal, okay?”

Renie looked unconvinced. “A signal for what? Can't these goofballs use a phone?”

“You know how my phones are set up—I've got the private line on the third floor, but the phones in the living
room, the kitchen, and the upstairs hall are for business. Anybody could listen in on an extension.”

Renie acknowledged that fact. “So you figure Tippy gave Justin some sort of high sign, then later told him—or Inez, or both—how the house is laid out. You're reaching, coz.”

“Of course I am,” Judith replied a bit testily. “All I'm trying to do is make sure we're not overlooking any of the suspects. Otherwise, we're down to the trio I have to sleep with. And Tippy, of course.”