Bantam of the Opera (22 page)

“Really, Mrs. McMonigle, I had no idea you were so keen on spirits!”

Judith stared up at Edna. “When I break one of these, I just lap it up off the floor.” She grabbed the bottle and got to her feet. “Actually, I was on the phone and I'd received some rather shocking news…”

“Yes, yes,” Edna broke in. “I've heard all the excuses. I suppose you drink to settle your nerves.” She gave Judith a sharp look of disapproval.

“Actually, I do. About twice a year.” Judith's glance was equally sharp. “Murder affects me that way.”

Edna pursed her lips, but her expression grew less severe. “It doesn't do to buffer shock or drown sorrow in alcohol. I've seen too many sad cases in emergency rooms and on the wards.”

Standing up, Judith resolutely poured herself half a shot, added ice, and boldly drank. There was no point in defending herself. Like most people, Edna Fiske would believe what she wanted to believe. “You've had quite a varied career,” Judith remarked conversationally.

“I have at that,” Edna replied smugly. “Hospital work, private practice, public health—now private duty. It keeps me on my toes.”

“For how long has Mrs. Pacetti engaged you?” It occurred to Judith that if Amina was well enough to go off gallivanting with Winston Plunkett, she didn't need a nurse.

Edna was quick to interpret Judith's question. “It's a twenty-four hour assignment. That is, it goes from day to day. I should think Mrs. Pacetti wouldn't need me after this evening.”

“Maybe the police will let them all leave in a day or two,” Judith mused, aware after the first sip of scotch that she needed food more than drink. It was past 6:00
P
.
M
. She wondered if her guests were staying out for dinner. Perhaps they planned to hear Justin Kerr's local opera debut. Ordinarily, Judith's visitors weren't accountable to her, but this had not turned out to be an ordinary stay. Judith wished she had known their plans; she could have gone to the opera with Renie. On the other hand, she was anxious to relay Edna's information about the pips to Woody. Judith excused herself to go upstairs to use her private line.

No one answered at Woody's home. Maybe they'd gone out to dinner. Judith left a message, then went back downstairs to fix herself a halibut filet. Edna had made yet another salad, which she was taking up to her room. Judith considered inviting her to eat in the kitchen, but thought better of it. She preferred to be alone when Woody called back.

But he didn't. At eight-thirty, Amina Pacetti and Winston Plunkett returned. Obviously, they had not gone to the opera. Except for a trace of fatigue, Amina appeared to be in blooming health. Plunkett, as ever, looked gray.

“You certainly had a good outing,” Judith said as Amina allowed Plunkett to help her with her coat.

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Amina. “The art museum, the aquarium, a ferryboat ride with dinner at a picturesque restaurant across the bay. For those hours, my troubles melted away. But now,” she went on, surveying the entry hall as if she'd entered a mausoleum, “they return. My grief descends like the storm clouds.”

Winston Plunkett was gazing at Amina with sympathy. “This is such a difficult time. There can be no sense of closure until the funeral is held in Italy. Mrs. Pacetti feels suspended in time and place.”

Judith agreed. For all of Amina's flaws, she was a new widow in a strange land. There were children, after all, who no doubt needed to be comforted and to give comfort. In fact, Amina had more in common with Judith than most widows. It appeared that she, like Judith, had not been madly in love with her husband. Judith felt as if she had given Amina short shrift. Unless, of course, the widow had poisoned her mate.

Plunkett and Mrs. Pacetti went upstairs. Judith tried to call Woody again, just in case his answering machine was broken. There was still no answer. Frustrated, Judith considered trying to reach Woody's subordinates, Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. But Woody should be the first to hear her news. She started up to the family quarters again, but at the door to the third floor staircase, she met Plunkett, coming out of his room.

“The police have released Mr. Pacetti's body,” he said in a low, mournful voice. “If we can get permission, we'd like to leave for Rome on Friday.”

Judith's reaction was mixed. She'd be elated to have her guests depart before Joe got back. But she was disturbed by the decision at headquarters. If the medical examiner
had made a mistake about the kind of poison that had killed Pacetti, the murderer might never be apprehended.

“Is Mrs. Pacetti still up?” Judith asked.

“Nurse Fiske is with her,” Plunkett replied. “By the way, is there any word from Ms. de Caro?”

Judith hesitated. “She's still in town.” Plunkett's face was impassive. “She got scared, I gather,” Judith added. Plunkett gave a little shrug that might also have been a shudder. “Did you mean to get in touch with her?” asked Judith.

The question stirred some speck of interest in Plunkett's gray eyes. “I should. Do you know where she can be reached?”

“The police know,” Judith hedged. “You assume she's actually quit her post?”

“Wouldn't you?” Plunkett's thin eyebrows lifted. “With Mario Pacetti gone, the ship has sunk, Mrs. McMonigle. Anyone abandoning it shouldn't be considered a rat, but merely prudent.” His thin face showed genuine emotion. And, Judith noted, a certain shrewdness that bordered on the ruthless.

The door to Amina's room opened, revealing Edna Fiske, medical kit in hand. “The patient seems none the worse for her strenuous day. I'll be staying on through tomorrow, however.”

Judith put one hand on Plunkett and the other on Edna. “I'm sure you two will want to confer about that. Excuse me, I must speak with Mrs. Pacetti.” She slipped between the pair and went into Amina's room, closing the door behind her. Attired in the peach peignoir with its feather trim, Mrs. Pacetti was seated at the dressing table, brushing her hair. She looked at her visitor with mild curiosity.

Judith was aware that if her lily-of-the-valley pips had caused Mario Pacetti's death, there might be some legal liability involved. Amina Pacetti struck Judith as the type who wouldn't hesitate to call in her lawyers. Judith had to be circumspect in phrasing her questions.

“Mrs. Pacetti,” she began, pulling Edna's bedside chair
closer to Amina, “do you recall seeing some…uh…flower tubers in the refrigerator last Saturday? They were in a plastic bag.”

“Tchaah! Tumors?” Amina's eyes grew round. “What is this of which you speak? Diseased plants?”

Judith winced, thinking Amina wasn't all that far off the mark. “No, no. They're like small roots. There were two dozen of them, tied up inside a baggie.”

Amina looked again into the mirror and plied the hair-brush anew. “You have many things in your refrigerator. I know about cutting, I know about arranging, but of growing, I do not know. These plants I do not recall.”

“They weren't precisely plants…” Judith stopped herself. Either Amina had seen them or she hadn't. Or, possibly, she had pounced upon them as a method of dispatching her husband to the next world. Judith tried a different tack. “I removed the flowers from Madame Garcia-Green. They were certainly an unusual arrangement, didn't you think?”

Amina twirled the brush through her thick hair. “Oh—not so much. Mario and I are—were—accustomed to exquisite flowers. These were not well arranged. I asked Nurse Fiske to redo them, but she said it wasn't part of her professional training. Lax, is that not?” She put the brush down and stared at her reflection as if coaxing her image to agree with her.

Judith gave up on following the flower lead. Amina didn't seem the least bit perturbed by questions about the bouquet. Again, Judith struck a different note. “I understand your husband had a fascinating series of rituals before a performance. Did he ever eat anything after he arrived at the opera house?” she inquired, trying to sound casual.

Amina frowned at Judith. “Why do you ask? Because you are a policeman's wife? These questions have already been put to me by the black man, the brown woman, and the white man. Every race and creed has interrogated me, except for the Orientals and your Native Americans. They
will come next, no doubt, from your FBI. I am sick of questions!”

Judith ignored the diatribe. “Don't you want the answers?” she asked innocently. “Would you rather your husband's murder went unavenged?”

Amina's face stiffened. “Of course not. But I have no answers. I am not a policeman!”

“What happened to your thermos?” Judith maintained her guileless expression.

“I don't know,” Amina responded on a cross note. “I left it at the opera house. It was of little concern to me at the time. What's a thermos when you've lost your beloved husband?”

About twenty bucks
, came the answer into Judith's head. She was ashamed of herself, but the reaction was entirely natural. She still remembered when the undertakers had come to carry Dan out of their squalid Thurlow Street rental and had gone right through the rotting kitchen floor while transporting his body to the hearse.
Not another makeshift patch-up job I can't afford—why do these things always happen to me?
she'd thought—and immediately been overcome with remorse. It appeared that Amina Pacetti operated on a loftier plane.

“That's okay,” said Judith mildly. “I'd just like to know why it ended up buried in my backyard. With poison in it.” She gave Amina a flinty smile.

“I do not know. Mr. Plunkett has told the police I do not know. We stopped at headquarters this morning on our way to the museum. Someone—the killer, I must presume—put poison in the thermos when I wasn't looking.” She spoke coldly, almost detached from the heinous crime she was describing.

“I thought you never let that thing out of your sight,” Judith remarked.

Amina lifted her chin. “I don't. I didn't. If I set it down, it must have been after Mario collapsed. And no, he did not eat anything at the opera house. He never does—never
did
.” The small word seemed to cause Amina genuine pain. Her face crumpled and she turned away.

Judith felt a pang of sympathy. She wondered if she should tell Amina that it was possible her thermos had not contained the poison that had killed Mario. But Judith didn't know for sure. She kept her mouth shut, stood up, and moved to stand next to Amina.

“I'm so sorry I upset you. I feel responsible—in a way,” Judith added quickly, envisioning a horde of lawyers from both sides of the Atlantic descending on Hillside Manor. “That is, you and your husband came here to find safety, under my roof. And it didn't turn out that way.”

Amina raised her head. She saw the havoc wreaked by her emotions in the mirror and passed a hand across her forehead. “You ask questions of the wrong person,” she said in a weary voice.

“Oh?” Judith frowned. “What do you mean?”

Amina gazed up at Judith with a dark expression. “Ask me no more. Ask,” she said in a brittle tone, “Inez.”

“H
E'S GREAT
,” R
ENIE
declared over the phone through a mouthful of popcorn. “Not in Pacetti's class yet, of course. But Justin Kerr has a beautiful voice. Melissa should have been there to give him a rave review.”

“I'm sorry I missed it,” Judith said, standing at the sink to rinse out the kettle in which she'd just made herself some hot cocoa. “Nobody died, right?”

“Nope,” replied Renie. It was after 11:00
P
.
M
., and she had just returned from dropping Madge Navarre off at her condo on the other side of town. “Inez was in fine form, Sydney Haines sounded terrific and Maestro Dunkowitz made sure the orchestra played the same notes at the same time. However,” she added, suddenly sounding mysterious instead of merely muffled, “Madge had an interesting note of her own to add.”

“Madge? Such as what?” Judith blew on the mug of cocoa to cool if off.

“I should have remembered, but all these years I think of Madge's employer as the Weisenheim Agency,” explained Renie. “Which it is, but it's affiliated with Halycon Insurance of New Haven. Is your picture coming into focus, coz?”

It was. “Interesting. So Madge really works for Justin Kerr's father, Corny Green. Next I ask, so what?”

“So…” Renie paused, munching on more popcorn. “Damned if I know. I said it was interesting, not informative.”

“Did Madge know anything about the Justin-Corny-Inez connection?”

“Heck no, I can barely get her to divulge any local gossip, let alone the home office rumor mill,” said Renie. “But to be fair, she was genuinely surprised that there was a connection. Cornelius Green is not unknown to her, but he seems to be some sort of mythical, Zeus-like figure sitting on top of a Revolutionary War monument in New Haven. Unlike most insurance company CEOs, he owns a big chunk of stock in the firm. In fact, his grandfather founded it back in the early part of the century. I suppose that's why Corny wanted Justin to go into the business.”

Judith gave a murmur of acknowledgment. Justin was well-heeled, which explained his expensive musical studies. Justin was probably married to Tippy, the license having been taken out under his real name. Maybe, just maybe, Justin and Tippy were keeping their status a secret not because of the late Pacetti, but for fear of alienating the enamored Inez. As an ally, a live singer would be a lot more help than a dead one. Maybe that help had already arrived, in the form of a recording contract from Bruno Schutzendorf. Judith and Renie tossed these ideas back and forth for several minutes. Then Judith updated her cousin about what had been happening at the B&B. Edna Fiske's revelation about the lily-of-the-valley pips elicited a squeak of surprise.

“Let's back up,” said Renie. “You're saying that somebody pinched the pips and fed them to Pacetti for lunch?”

“Could be. I couldn't find them when you were here Saturday night,. remember?”

“Hmmmm. So what's with the Strophanthin? A backup, just in case?”

“Maybe,” said Judith. “Or a blind. Whatever it was, we're
dealing with somebody who knows a lot about poisons. Of all kinds. Damn, I wish Woody would call. I wonder if he's been sent out on a more urgent case.”

“What could be more urgent than a world-famous tenor?” Renie pointed out.

“In this town?” Judith uttered a wry chuckle. “How about somebody throwing garbage in the fish ladders over at the ship canal locks? Or small children feeding stale bread to the ducks down at the lake. You know what we're like around here—serial killers may come and go, but don't muck with the wildlife.”

Renie conceded that their hometown did indeed have a reputation for getting riled up over some pretty odd doings. “Bill says it's our inability to deal with the darker side of human nature. This part of the world is so blessed by natural beauty that we can't face that people can be ugly. So we avoid real evil and concentrate on comparatively petty misdeeds which…”

“Hold it, coz,” interrupted Judith, who often found Renie's secondhand lectures from Bill a bit tedious. “There's somebody at my door.”

“At eleven-thirty at night?” Renie sounded incredulous.

But to Judith's own amazement, her fiction turned to fact. The front door opened and the unmistakable tread of Bruno Schutzendorf was heard in the entry hall.

“That's right,” said Renie, somewhat abashed. “I forgot—he was at the performance, fourth row center.”

Judith hung up and went out to greet her guest. Schutzendorf was unburdening himself of his Tyrolean cape, tweed jacket, and snap-brimmed cap.

“A splendid evening,” he declared, his booming voice heedless of whoever might be asleep upstairs. “Inez was magnificent. Sydney Haines is superb. And this young Kerr—he is a pleasure! I am shaking my own hand for signing him to a contract.”

“I feel left out,” Judith lamented. “How was the acting?”

Schutzendorf, now mired under his pile of outerwear,
gave Judith a bleak look. “Passable. Especially the two Americans. But you cannot see the acting on a recording. The interpretation, yes. The gestures, no.”

“I was merely curious,” Judith said in a self-deprecating manner. “I mean, it must be amusing for Justin to play the lover of his former stepmother.”

The bristling eyebrows knit together. “Ah! You know about that, eh? It is no secret. Inez, naturally, is somewhat sensitive. She is too young to be Justin's natural mother, but the association might lead the uninformed to think otherwise. Still, there is an affection between them. Yet it is not just to do her the favor that I sign up her former stepson. He is a fine tenor in his own right. Had I needed Inez's advice earlier, I would have made a better bargain. But after Salzburg…” He gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Hindsight, that. And there was no choice.” His rumbling voice had dropped to a mere mutter.

“No choice?” Judith evinced surprise. “Don't you run Cherubim Records?”

Schutzendorf would have thrown up his arms if they hadn't been full of clothes. “
Ja, ja,
but these singers! The temperament, the jealousies, the suspicion! But times change, people pass…into history. We have certainly lost a great tenor this week, have we not?”

“We have indeed,” Judith replied. “Pacetti's death must cause you a lot of problems. I mean, you must have had recording sessions scheduled.”

“We did.” Schutzendorf nodded gravely. “Three in the next few months. They will have to be postponed unless we can find someone of equal stature. Not that there is anyone quite like Pacetti. Young Justin is a possibility for the less taxing roles, but not Calaf in
Turandot
, not even Don Alvaro in
Forza del Destino!
If we do not get appropriate replacements, we are lost. The other singers cannot be expected to rearrange their commitments.” He hugged his stack of clothing and sighed deeply. “This has been a terrible blow to Cherubim Recordings. I am desolated.”

Judith could see why. She allowed Schutzendorf to
mourn his loss for a few more moments, then waved him good night. With a heavy step, he ascended the stairs. She wondered if, police permitting, he, too, would leave Friday.

Giving up on hearing from Woody, Judith went to bed. The sky was clear except for a few wispy clouds off to the north. A half-moon hung over the Rankers's house. There was little wind, and the night air was mild. Any threat of frost seemed remote. Judith made a mental note to buy bags of candy for the trick or treaters. Halloween was only a week away.

It was no wonder that when she slept she dreamed not of Italian widows or German impresarios or Spanish divas, but of a witch riding on a broom above the toolshed. “Mine, all mine!” the creature cackled.

It wasn't exactly the Voice of Doom, but it was definitely the cry of Gertrude.

 

Dr. George Inouye's offices were so new that he wasn't yet listed on the building registry. The sleek structure that housed at least a dozen medical and dental specialists was situated across the street from the Children's Medical Center and had its own underground parking garage. Judith inquired at the bank located in the building's lobby, but the sloe-eyed teller had never heard of the eye specialist. Judith got into the elevator and rode up to the third floor, where Dr. Feldman held sway. But Mike's orthodontist was no longer in the same place. A smiling blond receptionist whose name tag read “Carol Carsten” made apologetic noises to Judith.

“This is the other Dr. Feldman's office now,” Carol explained, as if she and Judith were on the most intimate terms. “You know, his wife, Sheila. Her practice has grown so that she's taken over the entire floor. Dr. Harold Feldman is on Four.”

“It's Dr. Inouye I'm trying to find,” Judith said. “He just moved in here. Eye guy?”

The receptionist kept smiling. “Dr. Inouye is on Five.
We've added two floors and just about everybody has moved. It's been a regular merry-go-round!” She uttered an exuberant laugh, as if to indicate that this was about as much fun as you could have in the medical profession.

“Thanks, I'll go up…” Judith was interrupted by the receptionist who had, in turn, been interrupted by a young nurse carrying a chart. The two consulted, with the receptionist dispensing more smiles and an overdose of information.

“Darilyn is new,” Carol explained. “Everybody is new, it seems; we're all in new places. Really, it's one thing after another! But she's wonderfully eager and takes advice so well.” The receptionist suddenly snapped her fingers and stood up. “Darilyn! Don't even try to decipher Edna's handwriting. Just let me see any of the charts she did and I'll translate. I got used to Finicky Fiske and all her strange ways.”

Darilyn nodded and headed back into the examining room area. Carol sat down again and looked up at Judith. The young woman was clearly surprised to see the startled expression on her visitor's face.

“Are you all right?” she inquired, turning serious.

“Hold it,” said Judith, leaning on the counter. “Did you say—I mean—could you be referring to Edna Fiske, R.N.?”

Carol's blue eyes widened. “Why, yes! Do you know her? Oh, my, I hope she's not your best friend or something! It's just that Edna was such a stickler about everything! The old school and all that. And her handwriting was so tiny and cramped.” She gave Judith an appealing look.

“Edna's working as a private duty nurse to someone I know,” Judith said, wondering how much she should reveal. “When did she quit her job here?”

“At the end of September,” Carol replied promptly. “Don't get me wrong, she's a wonderful nurse. In fact,” she went on, lowering her voice, “she got an excellent rec
ommendation from Dr. Feldman. Dr.
Sheila
Feldman, I mean.”

Wheels were spinning in Judith's head. Unfortunately, she wasn't sure in which direction they were going. “How does that work?” she asked. “Do patients request certain nurses or do the names just come up on a bureau list?”

“It depends,” Carol said, her earlier giddiness now flown. “Edna free-lances. She's had quite a broad background in nursing and has built up a certain reputation. We refer her, as do a number of other doctors she's worked for.”

Judith asked her next question boldly. “Did you refer her to Mrs. Amina Pacetti?”

“Let me look.” Carol got up and walked over to a bank of file cabinets at the rear of the reception area. A moment later she returned with a beige file folder. “Here it is,” she said, running her finger down a sheet of paper. “The request came in last Sunday. Dr. Feldman must have been called at home. She made the referral herself.”

Judith became aware of the direction in which the wheels were spinning. She also understood why Edna's comments on certain occasions should have indicated that the nurse not only already knew her patient, but her patient's husband as well. “Why was Dr. Feldman called? Had one of the Pacettis been treated by her?”

Carol not only closed the file folder abruptly, but her expression shut down, too. “I can't violate doctor-patient confidentiality,” she declared in a prim voice. “I've already said too much.” Judging from the aggrieved look in her blue eyes, she felt that Judith had violated her.

“No problem,” Judith said lightly. “Mrs. Pacetti is staying with me. So is Edna. Thanks for the help. I'm off to Inouye.” She gave Carol a friendly wave. The receptionist gaped at Judith's departing figure. Judith figured her visit would probably provide Carol Carsten with entertainment fodder for at least a week.

 

Two hours later, Judith was armed with a new prescription for glasses and a bill from the optometrist for $127.56. She was also armed with some new theories about Mario Pacetti's murder. Her call from the pay phone in the lobby had gone for naught where Woody was concerned. He still wasn't in the office. Judith's status as Joe Flynn's wife had got her nowhere in terms of trying to find out where her husband's erstwhile partner might be. The woman on the other end of the line at headquarters insisted she didn't know.

Renie, however, had been at home. The lure of lunch and new developments brought her out of her lair. The cousins would meet at the Cascadia Hotel, call on Inez Garcia-Green, and eat in the Terrace Room. Renie wanted to reverse the order, but Judith insisted on seeing Inez first.

“What's our gig this time?” asked Renie as the cousins approached the hotel desk.

“Amina sent us. Which she did. Sort of.”

Surrounded by marble pillars and Flemish tapestries, the cousins waited for the Brooks Brothers–suited clerk to tend to their needs. A phone call to Inez's suite elicited an ambiguous response.

“Madame Garcia will be down in a short while,” said the clerk, with a professionally impassive expression. He turned his attention to a Japanese couple at the checkout section.