Margaret Truman - Murder at the Opera

“I see. Well, I’m glad you’ve cracked that case,” Mac said. “Speaking of cases, anything new on the murder of the young opera singer?”

“No,” Willie said.

“No,” said Sylvia.

Mac looked at his watch. “Enjoyed the chat,” he said, “and the update. Good work. I hope you get to see the third act of the opera. It’s as good as the first two.”

He left them, hoping to see Annabel and share what he’d just learned.

Annabel, too, was attempting to find her spouse. She was on the other side of the security divide. Next to her stood a tall man dressed in a costume and mask from Wagner’s Das Rheingold. He moved slightly so that their sides touched.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Enjoying the evening, Mrs. Smith?”

The voice was familiar.

Ray Pawkins lifted the mask and smiled.

“Oh, hello,” Annabel said.

“You look surprised,” Pawkins said. “Even a little afraid.”

“Afraid? I-Excuse me,” Annabel said, taking a step away.

Pawkins grabbed her arm. “I think we need to talk.”

Annabel looked down at her arm and angrily yanked it free.

Another smile, more a smirk, crossed Pawkins’ face.

“I know that that weasel, Josephson, told you and Mac about me,” Pawkins said.

Just then she saw Mac circumvent a knot of dancers and head in their direction.

“Yes, Ray, I think we do need to have a talk,” she said as Mac joined them.

“Good evening, Counselor,” Pawkins said pleasantly, raising his voice just loud enough for Mac and Annabel to hear him over the amplified music and the noise of the crowd.

“That’s quite a costume, Ray,” Mac said.

“Thank you. It’s from Das Rheingold, Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Of all opera composers, Wagner stands tallest. Of course, he’s not to everyone’s taste, especially those with limited patience to sit through the entire Ring, but-”

“Ray knows that Marc Josephson spoke with us about Dr. Musinski and the Mozart-Haydn scores, Mac.”

“Really? Care to explain, Ray?”

“To you?” Pawkins said snidely. “I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation. But since you got suckered into it, I’ll be happy to answer your questions. But this is hardly the place.”

“I agree with that,” Mac said. “You name the time and place.”

“My house. Tomorrow. Noon. I’ll even make you lunch. I’m not a bad cook when I put my mind to it.” He rattled off the address. “Oh,” he said, “I see Genevieve over there waiting for me. I promised her the next dance. Do you samba? Probably not. See you tomorrow. Ciao!”

Mac and Annabel watched him go to where Genevieve stood, grab her in his arms, and sweep her onto the dance floor.

“So arrogant,” Annabel said.

“He is that. He also didn’t kill Musinski.”

Her eyes opened wider. “How do you know that?”

“Straight from the MPD. One of Musinski’s acolytes at the university has confessed, the same one they’ve been focusing on since day one. Whether Ray stole those scores is another question. Should be an interesting conversation tomorrow, and if he’s as good a cook as he claims, we’ll get a decent lunch out of it, too. Dance, Mrs. Smith?”

As they snaked their way to the dance floor, they were stopped by a wall of security forces that parted the dancers like the Red Sea, creating a secure passageway for the president of the United States, Arthur Montgomery, and the nation’s first lady, Pamela Montgomery. Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the evening’s honored guests stepped up onto the bandstand, to a cacophony of applause, cheers, and whistles. They were joined on the stage by a half-dozen members of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program.

“Good evening,” the president said into a microphone, that simple greeting in a voice familiar to millions of Americans generating another outburst of unbridled approval. Mac and Annabel stood in a tight knot of people and listened. The president spoke of the importance of the Washington National Opera to the cultural life of the nation’s capital, and to the nation itself. “They say that politics is sometimes like opera, full of intrigue and maneuvering, backbiting and betrayal. I wouldn’t know about that.” He paused, eliciting the expected laughter. “I can only say that attending the superb performances at the Kennedy Center, with the vision, creativity, and immense talent of Maestro Domingo always in evidence, causes politics to take a backseat for those few hours, the magnificent voices and spectacular settings lifting the spirits.”

The applause was loud and long, and not at all surprising.

“And I’m privileged to be standing here next to the next generation of opera stars, who will sing their arias on stages all over the world, ambassadors of peace and understanding between people.”

More hands came together.

“I know that these superbly talented young men and women will entertain you a little later in the evening,” the president said. “Now I believe the real opera lover in the Montgomery family has something to say.”

The First Lady replaced her husband at the microphone and started to speak. She’d gotten out only a few words when the sound of a weapon being discharged crackled through the heavy, moisture-laden air. There were shrieks and cries of confusion. Secret Service agents surrounded the first couple, wrapping them in the protection of their own bodies, guns drawn, eyes everywhere. Guests closest to the bandstand saw two agents leap on a man dressed in the white uniform of a kitchen worker and smother him against the floor. A weapon flew from the man’s hand and skidded through dozens of pairs of patent-leather and high-heel shoes, until coming to rest against a woman’s foot, causing her to wrap her arms around the neck of her tuxedoed husband and climb up his torso as though he were a tree.

The first couple was virtually carried from the scene, across the dance floor, past hundreds of partygoers with horrified expressions on their faces, beneath sharpshooters stationed on rooftops, and to the waiting bulletproof limo. Chaos reigned. Some guests, convinced that they would all be slaughtered, made for the exits. Others sought answers. The shooter, his arms wrenched behind his back, was transported away by four Secret Service agents. “You bastard!” a man yelled.

“Who is he?”

“He’s a terrorist,” others answered.

“How did he get a gun in here?”

Bill Frazier, the Opera’s chairman, grabbed the microphone and called for calm.

Mac and Annabel turned to the couple next to them, a U.S. senator and his wife. Mac had served on a committee chaired by the politician. The senator was ending a cell phone conversation.

“A terrorist attack?” Mac said.

“Right,” the senator replied. “They’ve gunned down Congressman Chapman. Christ, he was out walking his dog. The mayor of Denver survived an attack against him.”

Two security men whisked the senator and his wife away.

Frazier’s continuous call for order had some effect. The Brazilian band began to play again, and a couple took to the dance floor in a show of confidence.

“Please,” Frazier said, “let’s continue with the evening despite the dreadful attack that’s just happened. Everything will be fine.”

Mac wanted to leave, but Annabel said it wouldn’t look right if she left. He agreed, and they stayed to the scheduled end of the festivities. There was little dancing; most of the time was taken up with conversations about the event everyone had just witnessed.

Mac and Annabel returned to their apartment and watched the news on TV. The anchors and reporters stumbled through their reports, basing them on the sketchiest of facts. Some guests at the ball were interviewed, but offered nothing of substance: “What were you feeling at the time?” was the most frequently asked question, and elicited little. Chairman Frazier spoke of how shocking the attempt on the life of the president and first lady had been for everyone who was there to enjoy a festive evening celebrating the Washington National Opera. “Thank God,” he said, “that the assassin’s shot went astray and no one was injured.”