Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [48]
Zambrano’s face lit up. “An excellent question. But who is to judge which work by a genius is his best? For me, I find the raw emotional power and dramatic foundation of Tosca to be compelling. But he also wrote Madame Butterfly and La Boheme, among other magisterial works. Who can say?”
“Is Tosca the most widely produced opera?” another super asked.
“Strangely not,” Zambrano replied, chewing his cheek as he sought a basis for his response. “I believe—and correct me if you know better—that Madame Butterfly has been the most produced opera in the past ten years, at least in the United States. La Boheme? They are one and two, if I’m not mistaken. But Tosca is Puccini’s strongest work. Sarooodledum, as George Bernard Shaw termed it—he was fond of playing on the name of the playwright Victorien Sardou, whose play, La Tosca, was the basis for Puccini’s operatic version
It was enough of an answer for Mac, but Zambrano segued into his analysis of how Puccini’s operas stacked up against the operas of Mozart, Verdi, Bartók, and other familiar names, as well as some that weren’t. Mac’s mind wandered, his eyes going to that portion of the main stage where Charise Lee’s blood had been spilled. Someone had attempted to clean it, leaving a milky circle around where the stain had been.
Zambrano finished his dissertation, thanked everyone for coming, and announced that future rehearsals would be at Takoma Park, until the technical and dress rehearsals, which would be held at the Kennedy Center.
Genevieve Crier, who’d been there at the beginning of the rehearsal and quickly disappeared, returned as Mac and Annabel were about to leave with Pawkins.
“So glad I caught you,” Genevieve said in her lilting British accent. “Did it go well?”
“Sure,” Pawkins said. “How can a supers rehearsal go bad?”
“I can think of a way,” said Annabel as they walked through the Hall of Nations, the flags of every nation with which the United States has diplomatic relations lining the spacious public area.
“Gracious, yes,” said Genevieve. “Having a super murdered certainly ranks as…well, I don’t know, something going bad
“It didn’t happen at a rehearsal,” Pawkins said, sounding annoyed at having been challenged.
In her relentless cheerfulness, Genevieve didn’t seem to have picked up on the former detective’s shift in mood. As they stopped at one of the exit doors, she reached into her bulging shoulder bag and pulled out a magazine.
“May we have a drum roll, please,” she said, handing it to Pawkins. “Page one thirteen. You’re now famous, Mr. Pawkins
“What’s this?” Annabel asked.
“An advance copy of the latest Washingtonian. Our Raymond Pawkins, former Homicide detective on the city’s mean streets, more recently art and music connoisseur, is all over the place
Pawkins opened to the page Genevieve had cited and held it up for Mac and Annabel to see. Looking back at them was a large color photograph of Pawkins leaning casually against the set from Washington National Opera’s previous production, Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte, more popularly known as The Magic Flute.
“Grrrr,” Genevieve growled. “I had to positively break his arm to get him to agree to the interview and photo shoot. The editor loved the idea, a profile of a hard-nosed Homicide detective pursuing the arts, including performing as a super in our productions. It’s such good press
“You didn’t tell us about the article,” Annabel said to Pawkins.
“My natural modesty wouldn’t allow it,” he said, hand to his heart.
“I can’t wait to read it,” Annabel said.
“Here,” Pawkins said, giving it to her. “I already know what I said. Anyone up for a drink?”
“Not us,” Mac said. “We need an early night
“Genevieve?” Pawkins asked.
“I thought you’d never ask—or forgive me
As Mac and Annabel started to walk away, Genevieve said, “Annabel, don’t forget the Opera Ball meeting tomorrow
“I won’t,” Annabel said over her shoulder. “It’s on the calendar.”
• • •
Mac walked Rufus, and mixed his own blend of coffee for the morning, before changing into pajamas and joining