Margaret Truman - Murder at the Opera

“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.

Pawkins 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.