Murder at the Opera (2 page)

For him, the death of his first wife and only child at the hands of a drunken driver on the Beltway one rainy night had tipped the scales in favor of his escaping what had become one of Washington’s preeminent criminal law firms, abandoning it to his three partners, and becoming Mackensie Smith, professor of law at the prestigious George Washington University.

Neither Mac nor Annabel had regretted their decisions, not even fleetingly.

“Mac,” she said softly, touching his arm, “using prominent people as supernumeraries in productions has gotten the opera lots of good press, which translates into ticket sales. You’ll be in good company. Last year, two spear-toting Supreme Court justices wore costumes in a production. You read about them in the
Post.
And the Secretary of State and his wife did, too, the season before. This time it’s professors from the area’s universities. Besides, it’s
Tosca,
Mac. Puccini. You’ll love it.”

“You know I’m not an opera fan,” he said.

“But you’ll become one. I guarantee it.
Tosca
is the perfect intro for you. It has all the elements of great drama—sex, betrayal, corruption, and murder—and gorgeous music.” She checked his expression. She almost had him. Time to go in for the kill. “Besides,” she said, “I’ve already committed you.” Before he could respond, she added,

“It’s important to me, Mac. I’m new on the board and want to make what contributions I can as quickly as possible.”

He grinned. “And your first contribution is to sacrifice me?”

“You’ll do it?”

“Sure. Anything for a good cause.”

“The National Opera
is
a good cause,” she said.

“I was thinking of you, Annie. You’re the best cause I know.”

He got up from the table, kissed her on the cheek, and headed inside, saying over his shoulder, “I’m running late for a faculty meeting. Busy day.”

“Leave time for your fitting,” she said, following him.

He stopped, turned, and said, “Costume fitting? My loincloth?”

“Yes. And stop saying it’s a loincloth. It’s not.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I told Harriet you’d be free after four.”

“Where?”

“Takoma Park, the company’s rehearsal facility. All the costumes are done there. Oh, and there’s a meeting of supers tonight at the Kennedy Center. Seven o’clock. I’ll go with you.”

He embraced her, kissed her again, this time meaningfully, picked up his briefcase, and stepped into the hall. She stood in the open doorway admiring his purposeful stride in the direction of the elevators. He was halfway there when he suddenly stopped, turned, pointed a finger at her, and said, “You owe me one, Annie.”

“Oh? When?”

“I’ll collect tonight. And it will be more than just a rehearsal.”

She giggled, and said just loud enough for him to hear but not the neighbors, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

TWO

M
ac Smith sometimes thought that if he were president of the university, he would ban all faculty meetings. Occasionally, a meeting went smoothly, accomplished something, and consumed a minimal amount of time, but that was the twice-a-year exception rather than the rule. It all depended, of course, on who chaired the meeting. This day it was the new dean of the law school, a nice enough fellow with impressive credentials—and a tendency to posture. Had there been a fireplace in the room, Mac was certain that the dean would lean an elbow on the mantel and smoke a pipe, allowing for photographs, had smoking been allowed.

The meeting lasted forty-five minutes, thirty-one minutes longer than was necessary to cover the agenda. Mac was first out the door, closely followed by John Renwick, a teaching colleague who shared Mac’s abhorrence of wasted time. Renwick came into Mac’s office, tossed his briefcase on a small couch, and said, “Did anything useful come out of this, or did I miss something?”

Mac laughed as he opened the drapes that covered his only window and raised the blinds. “Scuzzy day out there,” he said. He turned to face Renwick. “We just learned from our new leader,” he said, “that someone on Capitol Hill, obviously of the right-wing variety, is considering convening a committee to investigate whether young attorneys being turned out by esteemed institutions like ours need a better grounding in old-fashioned legal principles; translation, more conservative ones. Our leader wants to be on the record as having heeded the call and explored with his faculty this alleged problem—which, of course, isn’t a problem. What’s new with you?”

“Not a lot. Lois wonders whether you and Annabel are free tonight for dinner, a last-minute thing. A college buddy of mine and his wife blew into town, also last-minute. Haven’t seen him in years. You’d enjoy him. He’s—”

“No can do,” Mac said, “but thanks anyway. Prior engagement. I’m being fitted for a loincloth.”

“What?”

“Annabel has ensnared me in this opera project cooked up by Public Affairs. I’m going to be an extra in
Tosca.
”

“I think that’s wonderful,” said Renwick, mirth in his voice. “You do have good legs.”

“I suggest you leave it right there, my friend.”

“I envy you,” Renwick said. “I love opera. You’ll be in heady company, Mac. Our leader is donning a loincloth, too, isn’t he?”

“So I hear.”

“Well,” said Renwick, retrieving his briefcase, “good luck. By the way, you won’t be an ‘extra’ in the cast. Extras in opera are called ‘supers’—supernumeraries—
supernumerárius
in Latin.”

“I know, but I prefer plain old ‘extra,’ for the same reason I refuse to play that pretentious game at Starbucks of calling a medium-size coffee a
grande.
I always ask for a
medium
coffee when I go there, which isn’t often. I make better coffee than they do and it doesn’t cost me the month’s mortgage.”

“We have to make our stands where we find them,” Renwick said, laughing and shaking his head. “I was a spear carrier in an opera while working my way through college.
Aida.
Loved it. Sorry you can’t make dinner. Another time. Give my best to Annabel.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.

Mac spent the next few hours fine-tuning a lecture on habeas corpus he would deliver that afternoon, taking a break from time to time to think about less solemn subjects, namely Annabel, dear sweet Annabel, who’d entered his life a year after having lost his wife and son and giving him a reason to live again. That she was a beautiful woman was beyond debate, hair the color of Titian copper, fair unblemished skin, and a figure that was at once sleek and voluptuous. He needed only to look at her in dark moments to feel his emotional tide rise. Wrapped in that package was a vigorous, surprisingly poetic mind (for a lawyer) that was seldom swayed by trivial or self-serving manipulations. That she’d readily agreed to make him her first and only husband awed him at times. Sometimes you do, indeed, get lucky.

Although they’d structured their married life to maximize time alone together, they were wise enough to know that too much togetherness could prove to be detrimental, and so they pursued the things they loved aside from each other, she her gallery and participation in a few selected arts institutions, he his tennis matches despite an increasingly bothersome knee, consulting commitments to an occasional government agency, and a twice-a-month poker game.

The Washington National Opera was Annabel’s latest involvement. A couple with whom they were friendly—husband and wife both ardent opera lovers—had tried to entice Mac and Annabel into buying season tickets at the Kennedy Center. As much as Annabel would have enjoyed having her husband escort her to the productions, she knew she would be unsuccessful, and contented herself with buying a single season ticket and accompanying their friends. She hadn’t been steeped in opera up until that point, and wasn’t sure she would find it as enjoyable as they did. But after that first season of five lavishly staged and magnificently performed productions, she was hooked, and not only couldn’t wait for the next season to arrive, she became active with WNO itself, contributing a substantial sum of money and becoming a member of the Medici Society, one of many organizations devoted to sustaining and enhancing the company’s financial and artistic goals. After two years of fund-raising and softly suggesting artistic visions and practical ideas to the company, she was surprised and flattered to be offered a seat on WNO’s board, which she readily accepted. At the moment, she was immersed in plans for the annual Opera Ball, one of Washington’s premiere formal fundraising events.

Mac was pleased with his wife’s commitment and offered his steady encouragement. Of course, Annabel continued to try to cajole him into becoming involved, too, but he remained steadfast: “You don’t play poker with me,” he said, “and I don’t go to the opera with you.” And thus it remained, although the number of CDs grew rapidly, and the apartment was frequently awash with classic recordings, which Mac found increasingly enjoyable, particularly the works of Mozart, Puccini, and Richard Strauss.

“You love the recorded music,” Annabel would say after he’d commented favorably on a new recording she’d brought into their home.

“Why not enjoy it in person?”

“Maybe next year,” he would say.

And she would say, “You said that last year.”

This was this year, and he would finally be going to the opera, not in black tie but in a costume of sorts, and makeup, onstage, for the world to see, including his students, fellow faculty members, and close friends. The thought made him wince and sent him back to the more pleasant and not quite unrelated topic of habeas corpus.

THREE

A
s eighteen GW law students listened to Professor Smith explore the subtleties of unlawful restraint and the use of writs of habeas corpus to prevent it, a class of a different sort of confinement was in session at the rehearsal facilities of the Washington National Opera Studio in Takoma Park, a funky suburban village straddling the upper northwest boundaries of D.C., and Prince George’s and Montgomery counties.

WNO had leased the former industrial building in the late 90s, renovated it, and opened its doors in 2000. With three separate rehearsal rooms, each the size of the Kennedy Center’s main stage, multiple productions could be in rehearsal simultaneously, a distinct advantage. The building also housed the company’s vast costume design, manufacture and storage areas, wig collection, and the offices of the Washington National Opera Center for Education and Training. This was the home of the world-renowned Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program that brought many of the most promising singers, pianists, and directors from around the globe to Washington for intensive one-on-one training. On this afternoon, fourteen talented young men and women were immersed in a two-hour Italian lesson. The majority were American; since 9/11, obtaining visas for future opera stars from overseas had become torturous, causing the program’s administrators to concentrate on homegrown talent. But this crop did include a South Korean, two Canadians, and a Spanish baritone.