Margaret Truman - Murder at the Opera

Scarpia laughs and dismisses the notion.

“I want a higher payment,” he sings in his rich baritone voice. “I want a much higher payment. Tonight is the night I have longed for. Since first I saw you, desire has consumed me, but tonight, though you hope to defy me, you can no longer deny me.”

He stands and approaches her, arms outstretched. “When you cried out, despairing, passion inflamed me, and your glances drove me almost beyond bearing the lust to which you’ve doomed me. How your hatred enhances my determination to possess you. I may curse or bless you, but you must be mine. You are mine, Tosca!”

Willie Portelain stage-whispered to Sylvia, “I hope she sticks it to the bastard.”

“Shhh,” Sylvia hissed in return.

Tosca and Scarpia continue their “negotiation.” Finally, Tosca agrees to his terms; she will indulge him in a night of passion in return for a mock execution of Cavaradossi, and a legal letter signed by Scarpia ensuring the lovers’ safe passage out of the country. Scarpia writes the note and places his official seal on the envelope. As he does, Tosca sees a knife on the table and hides it behind her back.

He goes to embrace her: “Tosca, at last you are mine.”

She rams the knife into his chest, eliciting a variety of muttered utterances from the audience.

“You assassin!” Scarpia shouts as he falls to his knees, his hands clutching the weapon in his chest.

“That is the way Tosca kisses,” she spits.

“I’m dying. Help me,” Scarpia implores her.

“Your own blood will choke you,” Tosca sings, hatred in her voice. “It is Tosca who has killed you. Now you pay for my torture. Can you still hear me, Scarpia? Answer me! Look at me! Look, Scarpia, it’s Tosca. Your own blood will choke you. Die in damnation, Scarpia. Die now!”

He draws his last breath as Tosca yanks the safe-passage letter from his hand and secures it in her bosom. She’s about to leave, but changes her mind. She takes two candlesticks from the table, lights them, and places one on either side of Scarpia’s head. She removes a crucifix from the wall and puts it on his chest. Satisfied, she leaves the room, the train of her gown trailing behind her, the sound of chilling chords and fatal drumbeats from the orchestra blasting a crescendo to end this act of murder.

The audience erupted into a loud, sustained, standing ovation as the curtain closed.

People eventually left their seats to enjoy a stretch during the intermission, or to indulge in a cigarette on the vast terrace outside the lobby doors, low-flying flights into Reagan National Airport joining the animated sounds of their excited voices. Annabel stood with friends from the Opera Board. “It’s a spectacular production,” one said, “one of the best Toscas I’ve seen, and I’ve seen plenty of them, all over the world. No one gives his leading ladies more dramatic entrances and exits than Puccini.”

“The performers are wonderful,” Annabel said. “It’s almost spiritual listening to them, as though we’re in a giant cathedral.”

“Scarpia sure does a good death scene,” a man said.

“I’ve seen other Scarpias take longer to die in different productions.”

“What an added thrill to have Maestro Domingo conducting the orchestra. To be able to step in like that on a moment’s notice when the scheduled conductor got sick is amazing.”

“He’s amazing,” someone said of Domingo. “Nothing short of amazing.”

Across the terrace, at a low wall beyond which the rippling waters of the Potomac shimmered, stood Willie Portelain and Sylvia Johnson.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Sylvia said.

“Yeah, I like it a lot. Never nodded off once.”

“I can’t imagine a better endorsement, Willie.”

They had turned off their cell phones upon entering the theater. Berry had given them permission to be out of touch during the performance, but told them to call in during intermission, and again when the opera was over. Sylvia activated her phone and punched in Berry’s direct-dial number. “Hi,” she said. “It’s between the second and third acts.”

“Glad you checked in,” Berry said. “Hate to do it to you, but you’d better get back here right away.”

“And miss the third act?” Sylvia said jokingly.

Berry took her seriously. “We’ll get you tickets for the next performance. Make it quick.”

He clicked off.

“Let’s go,” Sylvia said.

“I heard him,” Willie said. “You get those other tickets and forget about taking another dude with you. Remember, Willie here needs to see what happens to Tosca and her boyfriend. It was just getting to the best part.”

“Okay,” she said, and they headed out of the theater.

“What’s up?” Sylvia asked Berry.

“This.” Her boss handed her a fax.

She read it quickly, then handed it to Willie.

“Damn,” he said when he’d finished. “Can you believe it?”

“I think we’d better.”

The fax was from the New York Police Department. Officers had discovered a male body dumped beneath the Whitestone Bridge, in Queens. The man’s throat had been slit. Papers recovered from the body identified the victim as Philip Melincamp, the name of the individual for whom an APB had been issued by Washington MPD earlier that day.

“I wanted to wait until you got here before informing Mr. Warren of this development,” Berry said.

“He still here?” Willie asked.

“Yeah. We’re holding him as a person of interest.”

“Man, I hate that term,” Willie said as they went to the interrogation room where Chris Warren sat with a uniformed female officer. “You’re either a suspect or you’re not.”

Berry laughed. “His lawyer didn’t put up much of a beef,” he said, referring to Warren’s attorney. “The combination of the kid being there around the time Baltsa was killed and his lying doesn’t look good for him. The lawyer recognized that, too.”

They stood on the other side of the one-way glass and observed Warren. He looked almost complacent compared to his earlier volatility.

“How do you figure Melincamp getting it jibes with him?” Willie asked. “Me? I’d put my money on the talent agent offing his partner.”

“You may be right,” Berry said. “Let’s go find out.”

An hour later, they had their answer.

“Everyone, listen to this!”

A dozen people were gathered at Mac and Annabel’s apartment the morning after Tosca’s opening. The reviews were in. Genevieve Crier held them in her hands and read them aloud. They were uniformly positive, but everyone waited for the one they feared-and treasured-most, which Genevieve had saved for last. What would John Shulson have to say?

Shulson was acknowledged as one of the opera world’s most knowledgeable, insightful, and demanding reviewers. His reviews and commentary appeared in a wide variety of publications, always stylishly written but often with barbed criticism of some aspect of a production.

Genevieve stood on a chair.

“Come on, Genevieve,” someone urged. “Is it bad?”

The coordinator cleared her throat, looked down at the review through half-glasses, and began reading.

“The headline is, ‘Tosca Triumphs Over Double Murder.’”

“Charise Lee,” someone said.

“Of course,” responded a woman. “Some of the other reviewers mentioned it, too. It can’t be ignored.”

Genevieve continued in her best British stage-honed voice.

“‘The murder of aspiring opera singer Charise Lee, a promising member of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, added heightened verismo to the Washington National Opera’s opening night production of Puccini’s tragic tale Tosca. The fact that the murder took place during rehearsals, and onstage, added substantial stir in the lobby of the Kennedy Center Opera House prior to the performance, as patrons speculated whether the dual deaths of Scarpia and Ms. Lee signaled a jinxed production.’”