Bantam of the Opera (26 page)

The wind groaned and moaned over the new roof of the toolshed. More banging and bumping could be heard outside. It was turning into a typically stormy October night.
Almost Halloween
, Judith thought dazedly. Her head grew light; her knees went weak. She almost fell when Schutzendorf abruptly released her.

In her terrified state, Judith couldn't remember if Skjoval Tolvang had turned on the electricity in the toolshed yet. But her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. So, apparently, were Schutzendorf's. He unscrewed the boar's head from his walking stick. A lethal six-inch blade shot out, the steel catching the sudden glimmer of moonlight through the window.

“So you scream,” Schutzendorf said complacently. “Who will hear you with this clamor of wind and flying
objects?” As if to prove his point, the door blew open, then slammed shut again. “Tell me this, what mistake did I make? I hate mistakes!”

Judith felt as if she were exploring her throat to see if she still had a voice. She knew her reply would doom her, but she had to say it. Schutzendorf knew she had learned the truth. “Your only mistake was poisoning Mario Pacetti in the first place.” She could hardly believe the words had actually come out. They felt dry and thin on her tongue. “And, of course, your hat.”

The walking stick weapon never wavered in Schutzendorf's right fist, but he clapped his left hand to the snap-brimmed cap. “My hat? What do you mean?”

Judith cleared her throat as the wind slammed some objects together outside. “You wore a Tyrolean hat when you arrived at Hillside manor. It was perfect with the cape and walking stick.” Her eyes darted to the dangerous blade and she swallowed hard before she could go on. “Then, a couple of days later, you started wearing that cap. It didn't look right, it didn't fit your jolly German image. My carpenter found a black feather in the garden. He thought my cat had killed a bird. But my cat's been gone since the end of June. And the feather was too fancy—it looked like an osprey or something. Oh, there were other people here with feathers—Amina and Tippy—even Plunkett, with his fishing flies and Inez with Violetta's fan. You lost that feather when you were digging up more pips. Maybe the medallion, too. Then Mr. Tolvang handed me a bunch of coins. They turned out to be Austrian
Groschen
. All of you probably had been in Salzburg, so that didn't mean anything. I suppose the coins came out of your pocket when you were burying the thermos. You probably didn't notice until later. You'd already ditched the hat because it wouldn't look right without its feather and medallion. It wasn't in your closet. Maybe you put it inside that locked briefcase.” Judith was leaning against the small partition that walled off Gertrude's would-be bath and changing room. She shut her eyes briefly, trying to figure out how
to keep stalling Schutzendorf. If the on-duty police car could get away from the melee at the Heraldsgate Tavern, they might arrive at any moment. And Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle should be along soon. But of course they would never think to look in the toolshed.

Schutzendorf was nodding. “Clever.
Ja, ja
, you are no
Dummkopf
.” He took a step forward, raising the walking stick. “But now you vill be merely…
dead!
”

Judith ducked as Schutzendorf raised the weapon. She only glimpsed the door swinging open again. She had slipped to her knees at the moment her attacker was struck from behind. She was cringing on the floor when she heard the voice from above.

“No sneaky-pete city inspector comes after dark to check up on Skjoval Tolvang's vork! That's trespassing! I don't need no permit, py golly! This is an inside yob!”

Stunned, Judith dared to gaze up at her savior. “It sure was,” she croaked. “In more ways than one.
Py golly!
”

J
UDITH'S FEELING OF
triumph wasn't diminished one whit by the arrival of Patrolpersons Nancy Prentice and Stanley Cernak. The petite policewoman and her gangling sidekick performed their duties swiftly and efficiently. Indeed, Bruno Schutzendorf was still lying on the toolshed floor when the squad car rolled into the driveway. And Judith was still trying to convince Skjoval Tolvang that Schutzendorf wasn't a snoopy city inspector, but a cold-blooded killer.

“Vich is vorse?” sniffed Tolvang, returning his hammer to the tool belt he wore around his grimy coverall.

By the time Schutzendorf had come 'round, Prentice and Cernak had been reenforced by Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle. Arlene Rankers showed up in her bathrobe, rousted not by the police cars or Tolvang's rattletrap of a truck, but the arrival of the Checkered Cab, which had never received word of the cancellation and was sitting out in the cul-de-sac, horn blaring for its would-be passenger. At that point, Amina Pacetti had also appeared on the scene, cursing Schutzendorf in Italian, German, and French. Judith's backyard looked like an all-night circus.

After Schutzendorf had been handcuffed, read his rights, and hauled off in the Prentice-Cernak vehicle, Judith had time to thank Skjoval Tolvang properly. The carpenter, however, dismissed her gratitude with a wave of his metal tape measure.

“T'ink nothing of it,” he said. “I came to check out the shingles in this vind. And vile I vas about it, I'd a mind to make sure the electricity vorked. That vay, the rest of the yob can be done tomorrow. Donahues vant me to start early. But I see that briefcase outside,” Tolvang went on, “and I t'ink,
Vell, vell, it's The City, goddamit
. This is a free country and they von't get avay with that!”

 

“And they didn't,” Judith said less than forty-eight hours later as she and Renie joined their husbands for a postflight dinner in the high-rise dining room of a posh hotel near the airport. “At least Schutzendorf didn't. But of course he also planned on getting away with Amina. Instead, she rolled off yesterday in the mauve RV, with Edna Fiske holding her hand. I had a feeling Amina would need a nurse to help her recover from Bruno's treachery. Edna will probably enjoy the trip to Italy—and the funeral. Plunkett met them at the airport. After the services in Bari and winding up Pacetti's affairs, Winnie will come back to work for Justin Kerr.”

Joe signaled for the waiter to bring a second order of drinks. His round face was bemused as Judith summed up the events that had led to her unmasking of Mario Pacetti's killer. “You deduced all of this from a
Tyrolean hat?
Come on, Jude-girl, give me a break! Everybody at headquarters is going to point and laugh when I walk in the door Monday morning.”

Judith shot Joe an indignant look. “The hat was the clincher. Only two people had serious motives—Amina and Bruno, both for big bucks. Justin Kerr was ambitious, and Tippy shared his goals, but even for the world of opera, murder is a bit extreme. Inez wasn't exactly broken up over her affair with Mario, though she, too, was push
ing Justin, not only because he was her former stepson, but because she had the hots for him. That's why Tippy and Justin had to keep their marriage quiet. If Pacetti wouldn't help Justin, there was always Inez to fall back on, though I'm sure Tippy wouldn't have liked the price her husband would have had to pay to show his gratitude. As for Plunkett, I considered him more seriously—if he was stuck with Pacetti in a lifetime contract and Pacetti was losing his voice—well, figure it out. The future looked a bit bleak. These seemingly bloodless creatures often have a darker side. But Winston Plunkett had an emotional side—and he wasn't a killer.”

“Money, money, money,” chirped Renie, who had chosen this night of reunion and celebration to switch to Harvey Wallbangers. “Amina got piles of it, but so did Schutzendorf—from the insurance policy he'd taken out on Pacetti. I finally tortured Madge Navarre into telling me the amount. It was ten million dollars, with half again as much more because death was externally caused. There was a rider or some such clause.” Her voice faded as she got off into technical jargon beyond her understanding.

Bill Jones frowned over his old-fashioned. “I suppose that would have saved Cherubim Records from financial disaster. If Pacetti had lived, and yet had not been able to fulfill his contract, would Schutzendorf and his company have had to bite the bullet?”

Judith nodded. “That's right. Pacetti had had an insurance physical back in December. The throat condition didn't show up. Schutzendorf very likely wouldn't have got any more recording sessions out of Pacetti. It was a ten-year contract. Cherubim would never have made up the millions they'd paid to sign him. That,” said Judith, sipping at her scotch, “would have been pretty hard for Bruno Schutzendorf to—excuse the expression—swallow. But with Pacetti's death, he got more than his money back. And he planned on getting Amina, too.”

The waiter arrived with another tray of drinks. Joe promised they'd consider perusing the menu very soon.
Their table overlooked the airport. A 747 soared off into the clouds. A DC-10 taxied along the runway, coming to rest at the south terminal. The sun, which had appeared after almost two full days of rain, was going down behind the mountains to the west. It was a perfect autumn evening, typical for the Pacific Northwest. More rain was in the forecast for Sunday.

“So,” said Joe, hoisting his second martini, “Amina was using Plunkett to cover up her affair with Schutzendorf. Why bother?”

Judith gave her husband a little smile, not so much for his question, but for the sheer pleasure of having him back at her side. “Who could take an affair with Plunkett seriously? Besides, Mario depended on Plunkett as much as he did on Amina. But Schutzendorf was another matter. Pacetti could have signed with any major recording company in the world. Schutzendorf wanted him badly. I suspect he begged Amina to keep their relationship quiet.”

“Now just a minute,” said Bill, who liked his information free of clutter and without obvious holes. Bill Jones tended to think not only clinically, but analytically. “Explain the part about the Strophanthin. And the thermos.”

Judith took a deep breath. “Schutzendorf did in fact have a mild heart condition. He alluded to it once or twice. I suspect he kept the stuff with him. Maybe he originally intended to use it, but he saw those lily-of-the-valley pips in the refrigerator, and it gave him a better idea.”

“Whoa,” interrupted Joe. “Why
two
bottles? One was enough to throw everybody off the track.”

Judith nodded, and brushed lint off Joe's navy blazer. “That was really puzzling. Schutzendorf put the vial in the floral arrangement. He didn't want to make it too obvious, just in case the medical people really believed Pacetti died of a heart attack. Why draw attention to the possibility of unnatural death? And the flowers might have been thrown out, plastic liner and all. If the medicine was traced back to him, he could say it was stolen. Which, as it turned out, was true.”

Renie gave a little snort. “Talk about cross-purposes! Plunkett, Tippy, Justin, and Inez all thought they were doing the right thing when in fact they were only confusing the issue.”

Bill Jones gave his wife a skeptical look. “Are you two saying they knew it was Schutzendorf who killed Pacetti?”

Again, Judith nodded. “They were pretty sure. Plunkett and Tippy were aware of Pacetti's vocal condition. They also knew about the huge amount of insurance. And both had dealt with Schutzendorf before—Plunkett via Pacetti, and Tippy when she was with the Boston Pops. In fact, the Pops refused a big Cherubim recording contract because Tippy recommended against it. She knew that under that jolly German exterior he was a very ruthless man. But they didn't dare go to the police. First of all, Justin might not get his own contract if Schutzendorf was out of the picture. Cherubim will survive without Schutzendorf. Secondly, they
might
have been wrong about him. If they made an unfounded accusation, think how Schutzendorf would have reacted! All of them—Justin, Tippy, Plunkett, Inez—had plenty to lose by riling Bruno Schutzendorf. So instead, they made their desperate attempt to point the police in the right direction by swiping his Strophanthin
after
the murder and having Tippy leave it on the prop table. Then the other bottle turned up, and chaos reigned. Not to mention the quantity of Strophanthin in the thermos.”

“But originally it was the pips that were in the tea?” Joe was looking uncharacteristically puzzled.

“Not exactly.” Judith smiled at her husband. “That's where the wilted flowers came in.” She paused just long enough to let Joe hold his head. “Mario would have noticed the pips. Schutzendorf took them out of the fridge and trotted them upstairs to soak in the bouquet I'd placed in his room. In a few hours, the water would turn toxic. Then he probably poured the lethal liquid into one of those big tumblers he was using to guzzle his Sekt out of, and brought it back to the kitchen and poured it into the teakettle. I saw him fiddling with the teakettle and trying to get
Amina out of the way, but of course I just thought he was being his usual bumptious self. Pacetti bolted his food and gulped his beverages. If he noticed an odd taste to his tea, it would be too late. But of course Schutzendorf had to get the thermos back, rinse it out, put the Strophanthin in—and ditch it in a place where it just might be found to further throw everybody for a loop. The giveaway—which didn't hit me until I noticed the wilted rose in our bedroom—was that his dahlias and asters had died. Nobody else's had. It meant that Schutzendorf had emptied the vase and not bothered to refill it. Why? The answer was very simple.”

“Sheesz!” Joe rubbed vigorously at his high forehead. “What are you trying to do, Jude-girl? Make the rest of us look simple?”

“Gosh, Joe,” Judith said innocently, “how can you say that? You and Woody are the ones who solved the fortune-teller murder, remember?”

“What?” Joe's green eyes hardened slightly.

Judith bit her lip. “Never mind.”

Bill was looking askance. “Don't tell me Schutzendorf was some sort of plant expert! The man ran a recording company.” If Judith relied on logic, Bill's byword was reason.

“He was, as a matter of fact.” Judith darted an amused look at Renie, who was squirming a bit. “Schutzendorf told me early on that his great-uncle was the famous Emil Fischer. We'd been talking about music—at least I had—and when Renie told me Emil Fischer was a well-known German opera singer, I assumed that's who Schutzendorf meant. But something bothered me—somewhere along the line, I'd heard that name, but it had nothing to do with opera. Finally, I looked it up the other night and discovered there were
two
Emil Fischers who lived at the same time. One was a singer specializing in Wagnerian roles—the other won the Nobel Prize for chemistry by synthesizing simple sugars. That's the august relative in whose footsteps Bruno's papa wanted him to follow.
Schutzendorf admitted to studying his great-uncle's work but said he had no aptitude for it. I thought he was talking about singing, but he was referring to chemistry. He did, however, learn enough from Uncle Emil's plant research to know that flower pips can be deadly.”

Bill Jones adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses; Joe Flynn entwined his fingers over his budding paunch; Renie gazed up at the ceiling with its tiny lights made to look like twinkling stars; Judith burst out laughing.

“An honest mistake, coz. The point is, Bruno took the pips—and maybe some more from the yard, where Phyliss Rackley noticed that somebody had been digging by the living room window. The stuff can take a bit of time to work. Then he took the Strophanthin to the opera house and
after
Pacetti collapsed, he put the vial on the table.”

Joe was making a face. “And nobody saw him running around on stage?”

“Oh, yes,” Judith replied. “Everybody probably did. But he was helping Inez. She was in a minor state of shock. All eyes would be on her, the great soprano. Who would pay any attention to some minor gesture on Schutzendorf's part? The important thing was that Inez shouldn't pass out, too. After all, at this point, nobody knew what was going on with Pacetti.”

Joe gave a little shake of his head. “It was after that when he swiped the thermos?”

“He put it under that big cape. It was easy to do, I imagine, in all the confusion,” Judith said, noticing that the waiter was attempting to hover. “He buried it outside, just to create confusion and spread suspicion around. He was the only one who had
not
been backstage before the opera, remember? Everyone would assume that the vial of Strophanthin had been put there before the performance. Meanwhile, Schutzendorf discovers that his backup bottle of medication has disappeared. I don't know what he made of that, but I presume he had to scoot back to Bayview Hospital and get them to write him a prescription for something similar.”

“Proof,” said Joe, suddenly looking very official. “I don't see anything solid. It's all circumstantial.”

Judith gave her husband a jab in the arm. “Hey, he tried to kill me! What more proof do you need?”

But Joe didn't relent. “Big deal. Attempted assault with a walking stick.
Schutzendorf
could walk. What I really don't get is why he panicked and tried to kill you in the first place. He could have taken that plane and got away with everything.”

Judith nodded. “In retrospect, maybe. What are the keys to finding a killer? Motive, opportunity, means.” Judith ticked the trio off on her fingers. “Schutzendorf bailing out his company, Schutzendorf in the kitchen when Amina Pacetti prepared Mario's lunch, Schutzendorf knowing about poisons, discovering the pips, taking Strophanthin under doctor's orders. Tippy seeing him in the garden. And the decorations from that damned hat. Woody found it mashed down inside the briefcase. The feather and the medallion can be traced back to Bruno Schutzendorf. Tyrolean hats are often custom-made. The feathers are chosen individually, the medallions are sometimes engraved with a family crest. Check it out, Lieutenant Flynn, even if you have to call Salzburg or Innsbruck. Now what else do you need? Polaroids of Bruno Schutzendorf rearranging my dahlias?”