Murder at the Opera (6 page)

“No question that she was murdered?” Mac asked.

“Oh, no. Stabbed in the chest. I imagine the blade went directly into her heart.”

Pawkins ordered onion soup and a shrimp cocktail, to be served in that order. Sirens could be heard from outside.

“Ironic,” Mac said to Pawkins, “that you happened to be there tonight.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Interesting that you found what appears to be a bloodstain on the deck. We call it a deck in opera because—”

“Stagehands used to be sailors,” Mac said.

Pawkins smiled.

“That’s the extent of my knowledge, thanks to you,” Mac said. “Oh, I do know that we’re supers, not extras.”

“Exactly,” the lanky man said, refolding his long legs. “About the stain. You wondered why there wasn’t a trail of blood from that spot to where the body was found, assuming, of course, that she was, in fact, murdered on the deck.”

Mac and Annabel waited for the explanation.

“Whoever killed Ms. Lee was very proficient.”

“A proficient killer,” Annabel said. “Professional?”

Pawkins shrugged as his soup was set before him. “That’s impossible to say at this juncture. What’s certain is that the murderer acted swiftly. Ms. Lee was obviously stabbed by something, a knife, scissors, any sharp instrument.” He paused. “Maybe a spear. There are always plenty of those backstage at an opera. At any rate, her assailant evidently—and I hasten to say that this is based purely on a cursory look I had at the wound—plunged the weapon into her chest, immediately withdrew it, and in an instant shoved some sort of material into the wound, which stemmed the flow of blood, at least long enough to move the body elsewhere without dripping a trail behind.”

“Grotesque,” Annabel commented.

“It sounds as though it was well planned,” Mac said. “Premeditated.”

“A reasonable assumption,” said Pawkins, taking a spoonful of soup between thoughts.

Annabel’s cell phone rang. She quickly answered, glancing about to see whether it had disturbed anyone. The adjacent tables were empty.

“Hello?” she said. “No, I’m here at the Watergate bar with my husband. Now? A half hour? Of course. I’ll be there.”

She clicked the phone closed and returned it to her purse.

“What’s up?” Mac asked.

“That was Camile Worthington.” To Pawkins: “She’s chairman of the Opera board’s executive committee.”

“I’ve met her.”

“They’re holding an emergency meeting in a half hour.”

“They work fast,” Mac said.

“I hate to run, but I have to,” she said, standing and extending her hand. “It was good meeting you. Mac often talks about how good a detective you were.”

Pawkins stood and accepted her hand. “Knowing I might be cross-examined by your husband kept me on my toes. Good night.”

Pawkins’ second course arrived and he offered Mac a shrimp.

“Thanks,” Mac said, dipping it into the sauce. “So, tell me, Raymond, what you’ve been up to since retirement. I assume being a super in an occasional opera doesn’t take up all your time.”

“I wish it could,” he said. “I love it. When I’m not in costume, which is most of the time, I keep quite busy. I’ve been collecting recordings of great opera performances for years now. I must have five hundred or so, all neatly cataloged. I’ve been doing some writing about opera for minor magazines. I still have my four feline friends, although I don’t think one of them has much longer to go. And I haven’t given up working completely. I have my PI license for D.C. and catch an occasional case, usually involving something musical—stolen instruments or valuable scores—or art. Amazing how hot the stolen art market is, Mac, and how stupid those who steal it can be.” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and sat back. “You now have my life story,” he said. “What’s yours since we last met?”

“Two major changes,” Mac said. “Marrying Annabel was the big event. Scrapping my criminal law practice and becoming a law professor was another.”

“I was sorry about your first wife and your son,” Pawkins said. “The drunk driver got off easy, as I recall.”

“That’s right.”

“You must have wanted to kill.”

“I got over it.”

Mac motioned for the check. “I’m glad we had a chance to catch up,” he said, “although it would have been nice if the rehearsal hadn’t ended the way it did.”

Pawkins reached for his wallet, but Mac waved him off. “We’ll do this again, your treat.”

They paused beneath the circular canopy that covered the hotel’s entrance. The humidity was now visible, enshrouding them in a low-hanging mist. Pawkins handed Mac his business card. “In case you ever need an opera-loving PI.”

“You never know,” Mac said. “See you at the next rehearsal—if there is one.”

“Oh, there will be. Nothing will keep Tosca from singing her
‘Vissi d’arte’
in Act II before she stabs the wicked Scarpia to death. Nothing. Not even a real murder. Sorry your wife had to run. She’s beautiful.”

“In every way,” Mac said, and they parted.

Annabel arrived home at eleven. Mac had already changed for bed and was listening to a recording of Mascagni’s
Cavalleria Rusticana
while reading a description of what was happening in the opera, which had been included with the CD. The music was familiar to him. Portions had been used as the musical backdrop for
The Godfather, Part III.
He turned down the volume when she entered.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, kissing him and heading straight for the bedroom. She emerged fifteen minutes later in her pajamas and robe.

“So,” he said, “tell me about the meeting.”

“Well,” she said, “you can imagine the turmoil. A murder at the Washington National Opera, not onstage but behind the scenes, with a real victim and killer. It’s never happened before. Naturally, there’s great concern for what this will do to the season.”

Mac winced. “More important,” he said, “what it did to that poor girl.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” she said, settling on the couch next to him. “Naturally, everyone is devastated and feels terrible for her family. They’re from Toronto. Evidently, she had a tremendous future. Of all the young people in the program, she was considered to have the best chance at stardom.”

“Somebody made sure that would never happen.”

“The meeting went all over the lot, one subject to another. But what occurred toward the end should interest you.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Bill Frazier, the board chairman, suggested that while the police will be investigating the murder, he thought we, the Opera board, should take matters into our own hands and try to solve it ourselves.”

“Why? The last thing you want to do is interfere with the police investigation.”

“Image. We take on a tremendous responsibility bringing these talented young people here to Washington to study and prepare for their careers. Having one of them killed under our very noses doesn’t do much for our image. Bill says that everyone involved with the company will be prime suspects. He wants to prove that she was killed by an outsider.”

Mac laughed. “What if it wasn’t an outsider?”

“I brought that up, of course. No one’s looking to whitewash the company and its people. If she was killed by someone in the company, so be it. But he feels—and I agree with him—that by at least demonstrating that we care enough to examine ourselves and WNO, we’ll be viewed in a more positive light.”

“I suppose,” Mac said.

“Bill asked me to talk to you about it.”

“Me? Why? I’m not involved with the company.”

“But you were a top criminal attorney. Besides, meeting your old friend Mr. Pawkins might prove to be serendipitous. Genevieve was at the meeting and mentioned him, the fact that he’d been a homicide detective and loves opera. Do you think he’d—?”

“Take this on? I have no idea.” He went to the bedroom, returning with Pawkins’ card, which he handed to Annabel.

“He’s a private investigator,” she said, confirming the obvious. “Between you and him, we could—”

“Whoa,” Mac said. “If you want me to call Ray and run it past him, I’ll be happy to do that. But that’s the extent of my involvement.”

“Fine. You’ll call him?”

“Sure. Mind if I turn up the volume? I particularly like this section.”

Annabel placed her fingers against her lips to mask her tiny smile. Her husband, who’d never indicated an interest in opera, lately enjoyed basking in the recorded lush, dramatic music, and remarkable voices. That was good. Unfortunately, the brutal murder of Charise Lee now promised to involve him beyond music appreciation and being a super in
Tosca.

His posture at that moment was only to call Raymond Pawkins and see if he would be willing to investigate the murder on behalf of WNO’s board. But Annabel knew him only too well. He’d never be content with simply making that call. Like it or not, Mackensie Smith was about to learn more about opera than he’d ever envisioned.

SEVEN

P
awkins drove directly home from the Watergate in his 1986 Mercedes sedan. Like himself, he kept the vehicle in pristine working condition. The slightest blemish on its silver exterior was immediately buffed out, and he treated the black seats with a leather conditioner monthly. The engine was barely audible when idling. Particular attention was paid to the windows. Pawkins admitted to being a windshield fanatic, Windexing them at least once a week, often more frequently. People who saw him with the vehicle assumed he was a car fanatic, a man who attended rallies of vintage automobiles and derived great pleasure from owning such a splendid specimen. That wasn’t the case. Cars meant little to him, and he found those who doted on their well-preserved four-wheel beauties to be boring. For Pawkins, it was a matter of practicality and of pride in keeping what you owned in good condition. Like himself.

He’d crossed the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and proceeded north on the G.W. Memorial Parkway until reaching the village of Great Falls, a wealthy D.C. suburb with palatial, colonial-style homes strung along the Potomac River, the waterway that is as much of a Washington landmark as any of its man-made monuments. Few of the houses had particular historic value, but they were impressive in their size and sweeping views of the river’s swirling headwaters. Another hundred years would do it.

He ended up on a narrow dirt road lined with poplar and cedar trees. He followed its winding course until arriving at his home, formerly the gatehouse to a sizable estate with river frontage. He’d rented the small carriage house until its owner, a wealthy real estate developer, decided to sell it and a surrounding two acres. As the tenant of longstanding, Pawkins had first dibs, and he purchased the house and land. It had been a bargain. The owner had always liked having a D.C. detective on the premises and readily accepted Pawkins’ lower bid.

He parked the Mercedes in a detached one-car garage thirty feet from the stone-and-clapboard house and crossed a gravel patch to the front door. The outside lights, and a few inside, were on, thanks to state-of-the-art programmable timers he’d had installed. Rather than setting times for the lights to go on and off, he’d programmed in the latitude and longitude of Great Falls, using a chart provided by the manufacturer, and the day of the month. From that point forward, the timers adjusted to changes in the time of sunset and sunrise, the lights coming on a minute or so later each day as summer approached, and earlier later in the year. They even adjusted automatically for Daylight Saving Time.

The alarm system was up-to-date, too, including special motion detectors that would not be set off by the movements of his four cats.

He entered the foyer, turned off the system, and went straight to the kitchen at the rear of the house, where he put up a kettle for tea. Using the time for the water to boil, he went upstairs to his bedroom and changed into blue running shorts, a white Washington National Opera T-shirt, and sandals, stopping briefly in the bathroom to check his hair. Time for a touch-up, he decided; gray roots were showing beneath the subtle, artificial brown coloring.

The kettle’s shrill whistle brought him back downstairs. A devotee of green tea, he opted instead this night for orange spice Rooibos, a recent favorite. Because he was tall, and the ceilings were low, he moved through the old house in a perpetual slight stoop, although it actually wasn’t necessary. The habit of a tall man.

But he straightened once through a door off the living room, next to a wood-burning stove that he used in winter to help heat the house. The room he now entered was large and had twelve-foot-high ceilings, multiple recessed halogen lights, a Mexican stone floor covered by multicolored area rugs, and an elaborate built-in desk, its shiny black surface stretching nine feet beneath a series of narrow shelves that held an assortment of office items and small, framed pictures.

The wall opposite the desk, and a second wall spanning the length of the room and broken only by a large window, held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, their upper shelves reached by a library ladder with wheels at the bottom, and whose top ran along a metal trolley. Every inch of the shelves was filled with books.

A computer with a twenty-six-inch monitor sat on the desk. Built into the wall of bookshelves behind was a fifty-two-inch flat-panel TV. Next to it was the control unit for a Bose surround-sound system, its multiple, tiny cube speakers discreetly nestled in the room’s corners. The subwoofer sat on the floor beneath the desk.