Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (7 page)

The audience shouted “Victor, Victor!”

Still no Scarpia.

Tony jumped in surprise and reached for his pocket. Phone on buzz-mode; he took it out, grimaced, and leaned over to mutter an apology in my ear.

“Sorry, gotta go.”

He got up and hurried out to the south patio, phone to his ear. I watched, expecting him to leave the grounds, but instead he headed for the stage door.

It was cracked open; someone was there. Tony paused, pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge, and disappeared inside.

3

O
h, no!” I said.

Nat, next to me, gave me a questioning look. The audience was still cheering, still calling for Victor Solano.

“Something’s happened,” I told Nat.

The cast took another bow, led by Tosca and Cavaradossi, then left the stage. The audience cried out in protest. The applause began to falter, and voices filled the house, questioning, speculating.

I stood, grabbed my blanket and my other belongings, and hurried after Tony. The stage door was closed. I pounded on it, to no avail.

Mr. Ingraham appeared beside me. “Where’s Tony?”

“In there. He got a page. Something’s terribly wrong.” I tried the handle, but it was locked. I kept pounding.

“Ellen, that won’t do any good.”

“I have to see Tony.”

“Why?”

I stopped. Why, indeed? I’d been going on pure instinct, the knowledge that there was trouble and that I wanted to help.

Tony was doing his job, though. I’d just be in the way.

The stage door opened a crack, and a man in black clothes, wearing a headset and a stressed frown, looked out.

“I need to speak to Detective Aragón,” I told him.

“I-I’m sorry—”

“Please, just ask him to call Ellen. Can you do that?”

The man nodded and closed the door. I wondered if he would actually deliver my message.

A feminine wail sounded from somewhere behind the door, then ended abruptly.

The restless voices of the audience were getting louder. Everyone knew something was wrong.

The man we had seen earlier—tall, with salt-and-pepper hair—brushed past us, knocked on the stage door, and called, “Roger, it’s me.” The door opened to swallow him, then clapped shut again.

Nat, Manny, and Claudia joined us. “Ellen?” Nat said.

“Tony’s in there. Something awful must have happened!”

“Maybe you should come away, dear.”

“I’m his ride home.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a man’s voice over a loudspeaker. “We apologize for the inconvenience. It appears that a serious crime has been committed on the premises, and we must ask that you each leave your name and contact information with security as you leave the theatre. Thank you for your cooperation and your understanding.”

My heart sank. What kind of serious crime would merit such a step? Or require Detective Aragón’s assistance?

Why hadn’t Victor Solano taken his bow?

The noise from the audience reached an angry crescendo. The stage door opened once again, and Vi stepped out, still in her shepherd’s costume. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying, though her makeup was still perfect.

“Vi! What happened?”

“Ellen, I need to talk to you. Come over here.”

She led me away from the door and the crowd that was beginning to gather there, into the south patio. The rest of Mr. Ingraham’s party followed.

Vi turned to me and drew a ragged breath. “Detective Aragón asked me to tell you that he’s investigating a crime. He’ll be here for a while—he said you should go h-home.”

She was shaking. I laid a hand on her arm. “Vi, what’s happened? Is Mr. Solano ill?”

Her face crumpled and she shook her head, fresh tears filling her eyes.

“He’s dead.”

I heard Nat gasp behind me. I gathered Vi into my arms, even though she was taller than I.

“Vi, I’m so sorry. Oh, my dear!”

She gave one sob, then collected herself and withdrew. “I’d better go back. Detective Aragón said none of us should leave.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“All I know is someone found him in his dressing room during the curtain call. Detective Aragón is standing guard until someone comes to help him. He won’t let anyone go in the room.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Thank you, Vi,” said Mr. Ingraham. “We’ll let you get back.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

She nodded, then hurried back to the stage door. The crowd gathered there let her through, and the door opened for her.

“We’d better go, Ellen,” Mr. Ingraham said gently.

I nodded, overwhelmed by sadness. Victor Solano was a brilliant singer, in the prime of his career. And we had all, unknowingly, heard his final performance. I would rather not have been able to make that claim.

We joined the milling throng of audience members filing out of the theatre with awful slowness. Security guards at the front gate were frantically recording everyone’s name and phone number. We all gave ours, and were finally allowed to go up to the parking lot.

“Ellen, would you like me to drive you home?” Manny offered when we reached the row where we all were parked.

I shook my head. “Thank you, but I’ll be all right.” I turned to Mr. Ingraham. “Your part of the evening was wonderful. The opera was wonderful. I wish…”

“Yes,” he said, enfolding me in a brief hug. “Be careful going home, Ellen.”

I nodded, then hugged Nat, Manny, and Claudia. We all needed hugs, right then.

I said good night to them all, then dumped my gear in the back seat of my car, got in, and sat just breathing deeply for a minute. When I was steady, I started the car and drove home.

The garden smelled of roses and lilies. I let myself in the back door and just stood in the hall, glad to be home, sorrowing over how the evening had ended.

I’d forgotten the tray that I’d brought the cakes on.

I shook my head. It didn’t matter. I’d call Mr. Ingraham later.

I went upstairs and put away my opera gear. I had caught up Tony’s program as well as my own. I put them both in the sitting area of my suite, thinking I’d return Tony’s to him, though perhaps he wouldn’t want a souvenir of this evening.

I changed out of my finery and into a set of satin pajamas, made myself a cup of hot milk with nutmeg, and curled up in my favorite armchair.

Poor Tony. What a mess. He’d probably be there all night.

I tried to imagine what he was dealing with. It sounded very much like Mr. Solano had been murdered. There must be a hundred potential suspects—the whole cast, the crew, orchestra, staff—anyone who had access to backstage. Not to mention the audience. Anyone could have slipped back to the dressing room if they knew where they were going, and the murderer apparently did.

How could someone commit murder in the middle of a performance and get away with it?

I had taken the Opera’s backstage tour a few times, and knew that there were no private dressing rooms. There was one large room each for the men’s and women’s chorus, and one shared dressing room each for the principal men and principal women. “There are no divas here,” the tour guide had said.

So the murderer had needed to find a time when Mr. Solano was alone in the principal men’s dressing room. I suspected that was nearly impossible.

I picked up a program and turned to the cast list for
Tosca
. The male soloists were Scarpia, Cavaradossi, Angelotti (the man Cavaradossi was protecting, who only appeared in Act I), the Sacristan (also only in Act I), Spoletta (the torturer), and Sciarrone (another of Scarpia’s men).

Scarpia died at the end of Act II, so the murder could have happened any time during Act III. Vi had said he was found during the curtain call. When were the other principal men most likely to be away from the dressing room?

Cavaradossi was onstage for most of Act III, all except the beginning. Spoletta was around for a good part of it; he was probably backstage when he wasn’t actually onstage. Sciarrone had come on at the end of the act, I recalled.

But the two men who were only in Act I would probably have been in the dressing room for all of Act III. It was their place to relax, and the most likely place they would be between their time onstage and the curtain call.

Unless they had filled in with the chorus, who were onstage as other prisoners in the jail during Act III. I didn’t think that was very likely, but it was possible. I’d have to ask Vi.

Poor Vi. The murder alone was upsetting enough, but she had also lost her mentor. What a terrible blow.

The
Tosca
curse. Whether or not the legend was real, this event would only add to it.

I’d finished my milk, but I wasn’t sleepy. My brain was still busy trying to puzzle out the murder. It was futile; I didn’t have enough information, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I got up and rinsed my mug, then walked out into the hall and to the window overlooking the front yard. Tony’s bike was parked where he’d left it, down on the street in front of the house. I wondered what he was dealing with now.

Other police must have arrived and taken over guarding the crime scene. Probably evidence technicians were going over it, maybe the coroner. Tony would be asking questions, trying to establish who had been in or near the room, who had last seen Victor Solano alive.

A wave of cold realization went through me. Maybe the two principal men who were only in Act I were the ones who had killed him.

They were the most likely to have had opportunity. Motive? Other than professional jealousy, I didn’t know. It could be anything.

Not enough information. I really should stop this.

I took a hot shower and went to bed. Saturday was always a busy day, and I would need to be fresh and cheerful, as opposed to tired and sad.

I lay waiting for sleep, thinking about Tony and the chaos he was dealing with. As I began to drift off, I heard a melody: gentle, mournful, and lovely—familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I wondered who was playing it, just as I fell asleep.

~

The next day was unusually busy, even for a Saturday. By the time I finished a quick breakfast of tea and a croissant, eight messages were stacked on the reservation line, all but two of them wanting to come in that day. I was trying to fit them into the schedule when Kris came in, wearing a dress of black and white vertical stripes that looked like a throwback to the seventies.

“Did you hear about the murder at the opera?” she asked, stepping into my office.

So it was officially murder. News must have traveled fast. I wondered if Tony had a suspect.

“I was there,” I said.

“Oh, was last night your party? Awesome! Did you see anything?”

Did I?

I shook my head. “It happened backstage. Kris, we have six people wanting reservations today. Can you help me fit them in?”

“Let me handle it.”

I handed her the notes I had jotted down. “I didn’t erase the messages.”

“Good. Is there tea?”

“I was about to make some.”

“Great. Thanks.”

She went into her own office, and I sat staring at the chimney that anchored the wall between us.

Had I seen anything? Onstage, or perhaps in the audience?

The only thing that came to mind was the arguing woman in the fur coat. Anger had radiated from her. I wondered who she was.

Maybe I’d ask Tony. I got up and went out into the hall, stepping to the front window. His bike was gone. I felt an odd stab of disappointment.

Not wanting to go downstairs, I went across to my suite to make a pot of tea for myself and Kris. I put together a tray and carried it back across the hall, setting it on the credenza in my office.

“Here you are,” I said as I brought a cup to Kris.

“Thanks. All set on the reservations, but two more have come in. Do you want to stay open late?”

I gave a small sigh. On busy days, we sometimes stayed open an extra half-hour or more to fit in a few late reservations. I didn’t really feel like it that day, but it was good business.

“How late?”

“Six-thirty, maybe seven.”

“All right. No later than seven, though.”

“Got it.” She held out two slips of lavender message paper. “These are for you.”