Bantam of the Opera (7 page)

Tippy, or her look-alike, melted in with the other supers. A moment later, Mario Pacetti and another man entered the salon. Pacetti was impeccably dressed in a black frock coat and a ruffled white shirt.

“He's lost weight,” Renie whispered. “Or else he's wearing the world's tightest girdle.”

Judith gave a slight nod, then caught Pacetti's first notes: “
Mar-che-se
…” She frowned, thinking of the rock.

The revelers began to seat themselves at the table. Pacetti was next to Garcia-Green. A tiara sparkled on the soprano's head; white camellias descended from décolletage to hem. Wine was being poured; plates were passed. Inez and the tenor who was playing Pacetti's friend were doing most of the singing. It seemed to Judith that Inez's exaggerated gestures with a huge ostrich-
feather fan did much to obliterate Pacetti from the audience's view. At last, he sang again, five short notes. Judith looked up at the supratitles. “Yes, it is true.” She wondered…

Everyone but Pacetti now seemed to be taking turns singing as the guests exchanged flippant remarks. Inez was giving Pacetti a coquettish look as she poured him a glass of wine. The tenor made a gallant toast to the soprano. Everyone seemed to be urging Pacetti to sing a drinking song. He demurred, then surrendered. The rousing notes of “Libiamo” bounced off the opera house walls. Judith smiled; the set piece was one of her favorites. At the conclusion, enthusiastic applause erupted. The singers turned to the audience as if toasting their listeners, then drank.

Renie nudged Judith. “Lucky us, both Pacetti and Garcia-Green are in good voice. I'm anxious to hear Sydney Haines when he comes on in Act II.”

“That's right, the father doesn't appear until then,” Judith whispered back. “I was waiting for him to show up at the party in a Yellow Cab.”

The choristers milled about the stage in various attitudes of convivial party attendance. Pacetti and Inez were left alone to argue over love and pleasure. From offstage came the sounds of another, smaller orchestra. Everyone began heading for the center door, presumably to dance. Or so Judith deduced from the supratitles.

Inez Garcia-Green staggered and uttered an exclamation. Her guests evinced concern, but she sang her reassurances.

“Don't worry about me,” murmured Renie, loosely translating the opera singer's phrase. “She sounds like my mother.” Judith grinned.

Inez sat down, a hand to her impressive bosom. More concern, more reassurances. At last, everyone exited from the stage except the tenor and the soprano. Pacetti was ardent; Garcia-Green, cynical. They were close together, Inez in her chair, Mario at her side. Renie passed the opera glasses back to Judith.

“Look—they're kicking each other.”

Judith adjusted the glasses again. Sure enough, it appeared that Mario Pacetti was trying to stomp on Inez Garcia-Green's feet. She, in turn, was attempting to strike his shins from under the voluminous tulle hem of her ball gown. “Yikes!” breathed Judith. “Pacetti looks like he's foaming at the mouth!”

Verdi's score, however, conveyed a much more idyllic relationship. Inez, as Violetta, was beginning to succumb. Mario, as Alfredo, was turning up the heat meter in his ardor. Stepping directly in front of his leading lady, he began to sing the familiar duet, “Un Dì Felice Eterea.” His body seemed to twitch and his voice sounded uneven. Judith tried to see if Garcia-Green was on the attack. But the soprano was getting to her feet, preparing to join in. Just as she faced Pacetti, his arms and legs seemed to go every which way. Before he could utter the next phrase, he collapsed at Inez's hem.

Judith, Renie, and the rest of the audience let out a collective gasp. Not to be outdone, Garcia-Green emitted an ear-shattering shriek. Maestro Dunkowitz put down his baton. The notes from the orchestra died away as the curtain was quickly drawn.

“Is he sick?” asked Renie, half rising from her seat. “Did Inez stab him or something? What on earth…?”

There was a great rustling and much murmuring in the audience. On the main floor, Judith could see several ushers moving uncertainly down the aisles. Maestro Dunkowitz had left the orchestra pit. The errant notes of a violin floated eerily across the house.

Renie had sat down again, chewing on her lower lip. “Why don't they tell us something? Where's that effete yet ineffectual drip who manages the place, Creighton Layton?” She paused to flip through her program. “Why don't they turn the houselights on? I want to see who Pacetti's understudy is.”

“Here,” said Judith, taking her keychain out of her purse. “Use this little flashlight.”

Renie flicked the flashlight on. “An American, Justin Kerr. I think he sang the tenor lead in
Don Pasquale
here last season. Bill and I missed it because they did a modern production set at an AMA convention in Anaheim. There were Disneyland characters all over the place. I resent Goofy and Pluto singing Donizetti.” With a snort of annoyance, she handed the little flashlight back to Judith.

The audience was growing increasingly restless. Several patrons were now standing, stretching their legs, but keeping their eyes on the closed curtain. The orchestra members were also moving about, talking to each other, trying to look out into the wings.

At last, a tuxedoed figure appeared on stage, entering from the left. “Layton,” whispered Renie.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Creighton Layton in a cultured, if nervous, voice, “we regret to inform you that there has been a serious accident. Mario Pacetti is very ill. Given the gravity of his condition, and the disconcerting effect it has had on the rest of the cast, we regret to inform you that this performance is canceled. Please retain your ticket stubs. You may call the opera house Monday after 9:00
A
.
M
. for information concerning remuneration. Thank you.” Layton raced from the stage.

“Drat,” said Renie, with a scowl. “What did the little twerp do, eat too much calzone?”

Judith, her face etched with concern, turned to Renie. “We should go backstage. I need to know if any of them will be coming back to the B&B or if they'll be keeping watch at the hospital or…”

Renie waved away Judith's suggestion. “Not a chance. It'll be a zoo back there. Security, emergency types, the press. Somebody will call, I'm sure.”

A single word had caught Judith's attention. “The press? Don't you know the music critic, Melissa Bargroom?”

“Sure,” replied Renie as their seatmates in the center box swirled about them. “So what?”

“She'd know what's happening. Why don't we try to find her?”

Renie rolled her eyes toward the farthest reaches of the opera house. “She's doing her job. She's got a deadline to meet. We'd never catch her in this…”

But Judith was already pressing her way up the steps that led to the nearest exit. With a resigned sigh, Renie trotted along behind her cousin. “‘Easygoing,'” Renie muttered. “That's what they always called her when we were kids. Ha!”

Renie was right, however, about getting close to the action. After fighting their way through the main lobby, the cousins discovered that ushers were guarding not only the stage, but the side entrances that led to the Green Room and the backstage area. Judith's request to speak with Melissa Bargroom was met with a clamped-jaw refusal by a female usher.

But Judith wasn't giving up. To Renie's chagrin, Judith found a policeman in the atrium foyer. Identifying herself as Mrs. Joe Flynn, she tried to coax the patrolman into letting her go backstage. He, too, refused, but his rejection was phrased politely.

“Rats,” groaned Judith as the cousins began to wend their way through the dwindling crowd toward the parking garage across the street. “You're right—we'll have to wait.” She stopped at the curb where the stoplight had turned amber. “Hold it, coz—there's an ambulance at the rear of the opera house. And a fire truck, and more policemen. Let's go.”

But even as she spoke, the red lights on the ambulance began to flash through the rain, the siren shrilled over the sound of traffic, and the screech of tires resounded as the vehicle pulled out into the thoroughfare. Two squad cars followed, also with lights ablaze and sirens screaming. Only the fire truck remained.

Reluctantly, Judith followed Renie and the rest of the herd as the corner light changed to Walk. During the long wait for the cars to move down the ramps in the big park
ing garage, Judith was uncharacteristically subdued. As they started up the steep Counterbalance that led from the crest of Heraldsgate Hill almost to sea level on the out-skirts of downtown, Renie made an effort to cheer her cousin.

“Build me a drink and I'll stick around until you hear something, okay?”

“Sure,” said Judith with a flicker of enthusiasm. “It's only eight-thirty. We, too, can sing a drinking song.”

Entering as usual through the back door, Judith made straight for the front. But again, there was no sign of anything untoward on the porch. Judith slipped out of her tiger-print jacket and checked her answering machine. There were three calls, two for reservations in mid-November, and one from Phyliss Rackley, announcing that her lumbago was better, but her neuralgia was acting up something fierce. Still, she'd try to come in on Monday, God willing.

“Poor God,” murmured Judith, going to the liquor cabinet. “He gets blamed for more things than I do.”

Renie accepted a bourbon and water. Judith carried her scotch into the living room where the cousins sat down opposite each other on the matching sofas.

“It's cool enough to build a fire,” Judith noted, but made no move to do so. “I've got to get my bulbs in before we have a frost.”

“We may not get one this year,” said Renie, removing her shoes and tucking her feet under her bottom. “What's the point? The squirrels and the raccoons eat the damned things anyway. Next year, I'm going to stick to perennials. Say, did you have any extra lily-of-the-valley pips? I could use some of those.”

“I was saving them for Mrs. Dooley, but I could dig up a few more for you. You can't put them in until almost Christmas.”

Renie gave a nod of assent. “I'll probably forget. It's such a hectic time of year around then. Hey, when's your carpenter coming?”

Judith started to reply but the phone rang. She got up to answer the extension on the little table next to the window seat. Winston Plunkett's thin voice sounded very wobbly.

“Mrs. Flynn? I have some terrible news. Mr. Pacetti has…passed away.” Plunkett's voice broke on the last syllable.

With a gasp that made Renie jump, Judith clutched at the phone. “You mean…
he died?
” she said, aware that her remark was idiotic.

“Yes.” Plunkett apparently had regained control of himself. “In the ambulance, on the way to the hospital.”

“Oh, dear.” Judith had her back to Renie and couldn't see her cousin's frantic gestures. “What was it—heart?”

“It would seem so,” said Plunkett. “I wanted to let you know in case some of the rest of us don't return tonight. Mrs. Pacetti has been sedated. Mr. Schutzendorf is being examined for a possible stroke. And Ms. de Caro is hysterical. Naturally, we have our keys. Please don't wait up for us.” He rang off.

Judith replaced the receiver and turned to Renie in a daze. Renie was on her feet, holding her drink with both hands. Her brown eyes were very wide. “Toes up?”

Judith nodded.

“Heart, I gather?”

Judith nodded again.

“Damn!” Renie sat back down, spilling bourbon on her red wool cape. “He wasn't that old,” she remarked, her face puckered with dismay under the fringe of chestnut hair. “Mid-forties, I think. But look at Caruso, he died at about the same age.”

Slowly, Judith made her way back to the sofa. “Right.” She sat down and took a sip of her scotch, aware that her hands were shaking. After a long pause, she met Renie's gaze head-on. “Coz, I'm a terrible woman.”

Renie's expression changed from dismay to puzzlement. “Why?”

“That poor man with his wonderful voice and talent for giving so much joy to people is dead, and all I can do is
thank God that he didn't die
here
. I don't think I'll ever get over having all those emergency vehicles show up on the doorstep after the fortune-teller was killed in my very own dining room.” She saw Renie start to interrupt and made a shushing gesture. “I know, I know, the notoriety may actually have helped, not hindered, my business. But even so, if it had happened more than once, I would have felt that this place was hexed.”

“Don't be silly,” said Renie. “With all the people you have coming through the doors, something awful is bound to happen. Illness, accidents, even something fatal like a heart attack or an aneurism.” She got to her feet again, reaching for Judith's half-empty glass. “Here, let's freshen our drinks. I don't want to drive home stewed, but it won't hurt to have another shot.”

Judith didn't argue. “Maybe you're right,” she said as Renie headed for the kitchen. “Still, I don't want to get the reputation of being a high-risk bed-and-breakfast. The next thing I know, guests will be bungee-jumping out the windows.”

“What?” called Renie from the kitchen. She'd missed most of what Judith was saying. “Hold on.”

“I said,” Judith yelled, “that I don't want to…”

“Yipes!” exclaimed Renie, passing through the dining room and glancing out through the entry hall to the street. She stopped, getting a firm grip on the glasses.

“What's wrong?” Judith swiveled on the sofa.

Renie skittered into the living room, hastily depositing their drinks on the coffee table. “It's not an ambulance,” she said in a rapid delivery. “It's not the fire department or an aid car. But,” she went on with an air of apology, “it
is
the police.”