Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [37]
Pawkins looked at his watch. He was due for the seven o’clock rehearsal.
• • •
He’d spent part of the afternoon there chatting with an old friend, who escorted him back up to where Charise Lee’s body had been found.
“Who ever comes up here?” he’d asked, examining the perimeter of the space far above where the audience would sit during a performance.
“Damn near no one” was the response.
“Which means that whoever killed her knew of this space,” Pawkins murmured, “and how to get up here
“Or maybe somebody showed him,” his friend offered.
Two people involved? Unlikely. But it could be. Pawkins looked up from where the body had been. “Somebody who worked here at the Center?”
“Don’t look at me, man
Pawkins straightened. “Who else would know about this place except for someone who worked here backstage?”
His friend shrugged. “You done here?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m done. Thanks for bringing me
“Gives me the creeps,” said his friend as they began their descent to the stage. “Pretty young kid like that, her whole life ahead of her
“Maybe she should have picked her friends better,” Pawkins said.
“You figure it was somebody she knew?”
“It usually is. But in this case? I don’t know. Could have been some horny grip or lighting tech who found her too attractive
“You really think that’s what happened?”
“No, but you rule out nothing. A stranger would have strangled her, not stabbed in her chest and then have had the wherewithal to plug the wound
“Jesus
“He wouldn’t have approved,” Pawkins said as they reached the stage and stood near the computer where the lighting director plied her trade during performances. “I owe you
“Anytime, Ray. Hey, you’re in the show coming up, right?”
“Tosca. Tell me something, you work with all the shows that come in here, right?”
“Right
“Not just the Washington Opera
“Right again. Road shows of musicals, ballet, concerts, whatever comes along
“What about the people from the Opera?”
“What about ’em?”
“Are they more difficult to work with than others?”
His friend laughed. “Funny you should ask that. I was telling my wife the other night that the opera people are just about the easiest to get along with, a lot easier than traveling celebrities. Some of them give me a royal pain in the keister
Pawkins also laughed. “That goes for directors like Anthony Zambrano, too?”
“Well, he’s another story. See you around, Ray. How’s retirement?”
“Tiring.”
• • •
While Pawkins readied to head out for a quick dinner and the rehearsal, theatrical agent Philip Melincamp waited impatiently for his partner, Zöe Baltsa, to show up at A.V. Ristorante Italiano on New York Avenue. Besides serving well-cooked Italian food since 1949, it was the only restaurant in the District with an all-opera jukebox. Melincamp plugged in coins and the voice of soprano Galina Vishnevskaya singing an aria from Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov wheezed from the old box. Listening to Vishnevskaya reminded him of when she and her husband, Rostropovitch, had left the Soviet Union and blasted the Communist government in her autobiography, naming names of snitches in high places, including the famous mezzo Obratzsova. All of opera’s drama wasn’t on the stage.
The music helped soothe his frazzled nerves, and his anger at his partner’s lateness. She was always late, it seemed, bursting onto the scene full of flowery excuses and affected charm.
He looked at his glass of house red and checked his watch. At times like this he wished he hadn’t taken Zöe as a partner. When he had put aside his qualms, it was because he didn’t see any viable choice. He was low on funds, rent was due, his wardrobe had slid into shabby, and his credit cards were at their limits. Along came Zöe, fresh