Margaret Truman - Murder at the Opera

“Oh, my God,” someone said. “He’s calling it a jinxed production.”

“No, no,” Genevieve said. “Listen!” She drew herself up to full height, which wasn’t very high at all, and continued. “‘Not to worry.’” She looked up from the page. “That’s what Mr. Shulson wrote. It’s not what I’m saying.”

“Okay, we get it,” someone said. “Go on.”

“‘Not to worry. True to form, the Washington National Opera’s Tosca rose above the mayhem created by the incident, bringing added drama to the tale of lust, love, and, of course, murder. Literally leading the way to success was General Director Plácido Domingo, who stepped in as a last-minute replacement for conductor and music director Heinz Fricke. Fricke fell ill the afternoon of the opening, only adding to this Tosca’s turmoil. However, the maestro’s strong hand and familiarity with the score, no doubt greatly enhanced by his having performed the role of Cavaradossi countless times, brought an unusually perceptive sense of drama, richness, and poignancy to the orchestra’s performance, and to the production itself.’”

“He liked it,” a few guests said, joy in their voices.

Genevieve continued: “‘Equally sure-handed was Anthony Zambrano’s direction, although one suspects he never anticipated the notoriety he would receive from this production when he signed on. Despite the real-life drama surrounding the murder and this production, Zambrano’s vision remained grounded and focused. Not surprisingly, Scarpia’s murder in Act II sent chills throughout the full house as Tosca plunged the knife into his chest, uttering, “That is the way Tosca kisses.” One wondered instinctively what the real-life murderer might have said when a similar knife was plunged into Ms. Lee’s chest on that very stage, her blood symbolically mingling with the blood of the slain Scarpia in an eerie and ominous close to the act.’”

Genevieve surveyed her audience. No one moved, nor said anything. She read the rest an octave higher. “Listen to what he says next! ‘Despite the high-pitched hype surrounding the murder-performance, the entire cast deserves considerable praise for performing under duress and distress. It was not just a case of rising above the occasion, but a ringing musical example of excellent preparation, singing, finely crafted characterizations, and a dedication to an art form not always thought of in terms of reality-except in the case of murder. Don’t miss this Tosca at the Kennedy Center! Its power and majesty astounded even this reviewer.’”

Genevieve jumped down from the chair and curtsied as applause broke out.

Spirits were high at the Smiths’ that morning because of the rave reviews, and appetites were whetted. But no one lingered once they’d enjoyed a bagel or croissant, some salmon, caviar, juice, or coffee. There was the Opera Ball that evening to prepare for, and the apartment soon emptied. Mac and Annabel cleared the table of leftover food and filled the dishwasher. That chore completed, they took coffee to the terrace.

“A success,” Annabel proclaimed.

“Our parties are always a success,” Mac said. “You’re the perfect hostess.”

“The host had something to do with it, too.” She sobered. “So, Mac, what was your read on Pawkins this morning?”

“He seemed in good spirits, but that’s not unusual for him. I’ll face him about the Musinski murder once the ball is over with.”

“The reviews were excellent.”

“Yes, they were, although I was disappointed none of them singled me out for my performance.”

“I thought you were an absolute star,” she said, kissing his cheek. “My star.” She got up from her chair. “I have to run. Another meeting.”

“Your life is a series of meetings,” he said, not being critical.

“Only until tonight is over.”

Another meeting taking place that morning didn’t involve reviews, and there wasn’t a bagel in sight. It was held at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A top official from that agency chaired the meeting. Also present were Joseph Browning and two aides from the Department of Homeland Security, a representative from the CIA, and Detective Carl Berry and his boss, Cole Morris. Morris read from a lengthy report, copies of which had been handed out to the others. Why is he reading it if we all have it? Berry silently wondered. When Morris finished, the ranking FBI special agent in the room asked, “And you believe everything this young man says? What’s his name. Warren?”

“Christopher Warren,” Morris said. “Yes, we believe him. The pieces all fit.”

“We have agents working with the New York police on this Melincamp murder,” the special agent said.

“Any leads on who killed him?” Berry asked.

“Not at the moment,” the FBI agent said. “Let’s go over your report more closely.”

The report was based upon an hour-long interrogation of Chris Warren following the fax informing Washington’s MPD that Melincamp had been found dead in New York. That news had shaken Warren badly; Berry wondered whether he might have a breakdown before they could question him. But Warren pulled himself together and began to talk, and soon words and thoughts were flowing as though an internal dam had broken.

“…and I’m glad that Philip is dead,” Warren said, drawing in gulps of air. “He deserved to die.”

“Why is that?” Sylvia Johnson asked.

“Because of what he did to people. I wanted to kill him myself, but I was…”

“You were what?”

“I was afraid of him. That’s why I didn’t say anything when he killed Charise. He told me that if I talked to anybody about it, the same thing would happen to me.”

“If you talked about what?” Berry asked. “Charise’s murder?”

“That, and the plan, too.”

“What in hell plan are you talking about, Warren?” Willie asked, his impatience showing.

“The plan to kill the president or some other big shot. It was going to be part of a larger plan, a bunch of American political big shots killed the same day.”

That statement brought a hush to the dimly lighted room. The tape recorder ran silently.

“Go on,” Berry said softly.

The three detectives sat back and allowed Warren to continue, which he did for the better part of the hour.

He told of how Charise had fallen under the spell of the young Arab student she’d started dating, and how that student had introduced her to a terrorist cell in Toronto with plans to strike another blow against the United States. Melincamp, he said, also exerted a strong hold over Charise, and she brought him into her new sphere of terrorist friends.

“What was in it for Melincamp?” Sylvia asked.

“Money. He wanted out of the partnership with Zöe and needed money, big money to buy her out. He and Zöe had some kind of agreement that gave him the right to do that. The terrorists promised him and Charise a ton of money if they would assassinate someone when they were in Washington.”

“When did you learn about this?” asked Berry.

“After we got here. I owed Melincamp money. He kept giving me advances. When it got to be a lot, he said he’d drop me and see to it that I didn’t have a career as a pianist. I believed him.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Willie said. “Hold on a minute. Are you telling us that you kept your mouth shut because you owed this slimeball money?”

“In the beginning,” Warren responded. “But it was more than that. When Charise told him she wasn’t going through with it, he-”