Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [77]
Annabel laughed. “I don’t think it matters what anyone thinks,” she said. “If the president of the United States says he’s coming to the Opera Ball, you can’t very well call and uninvite him. He’s coming, we know he’s coming, and that’s that. I’m sure he and the first lady will make every attempt to disrupt as little as possible
“Annabel is right,” Nicki said. “Let’s view this positively and enjoy the honor it means to us and the opera. I also suggest that we immediately select someone to coordinate the president’s appearance. Annabel? It sounds like a job you’d be more than qualified to handle
Annabel started to demur, but others seconded the suggestion.
“Will you do it, Annabel?”
“I’ll give it my best,” she said.
“All right, then,” Nicki said, “let’s get down to the other business at hand. I’m pleased to announce that the strike has ended at the manufacturer of our velvet goodie bags. He’s confident he’ll be able to meet our deadline. I might also say that…”
• • •
Pawkins headed for Takoma Park, where he found Chris Warren accompanying a young, black soprano from the Domingo-Cafritz Program. Pawkins sat quietly in a corner of the otherwise empty rehearsal room and listened to her tackle “Marten aller Arten,” a challenging aria from Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio. Not bad, he thought, although he considered her voice to be characteristically light. Too many light voices being developed in America, he mused, too many young sopranos being fed a diet of Mozart arias to develop airy, nimble voices; constricted, compacted voices; “sausage sopranos,” as they were snidely called. He preferred bigger voices, the kind European opera audiences responded to, older voices—but not too old—capable of filling a large opera house while plumbing the depths of their roles.
When the soprano and Warren finished the piece, Pawkins applauded, startling the performers and causing them to squint to better see into the dark recess where he sat. He approached. “Bravo!” he said, his hands still coming together.
“Thank you,” the singer said.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Pawkins said.
“You aren’t. I’m off to a class
Warren started to walk away with her, when Pawkins said, “Got a minute, Mr. Warren?”
The pianist turned. “Who are you?”
“Raymond Pawkins,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m investigating the murder of Charise Lee for the Washington National Opera
“I’ve already been interviewed by the police,” Warren said.
Pawkins cocked his head and leaned a little closer to Warren. “Accident?” he asked, referring to Warren’s facial bruises.
Warren shook his head.
“I’m a private detective, former Washington MPD. Let’s sit over there.” He indicated a well-worn, red velour couch against a wall behind the Steinway.
“I have nothing more to say,” Warren protested.
“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Pawkins. “Come on, indulge me a few minutes
They sat side by side on the couch. Warren’s nerves were on the surface. He kept intertwining his long fingers, and there was a tic in his right eye. Pawkins said nothing, allowing the pianist’s nerves to come full-blossom. Finally, he said, “So, Mr. Warren, tell me about this radical group you and Ms. Lee were involved with back in Toronto
Warren’s expression was a mix of surprise and confusion.
“You know what I’m talking about, and I know about it, too. So, let’s make this a short and sweet conversation. How involved was Ms. Lee in the group’s activities?”
“She—she was into it, I suppose
“‘Into it’? Be a little more specific
“She was always latching on to some new cause. Seemed like whoever she talked to last was the one she listened to
“A Dionysian personality,” Pawkins said.
“Huh?”
“Easily influenced, probably easily hypnotized, too. What was her latest cause before coming here to D.C.?”
Warren shrugged. “The war, I guess
“Iraq
“Yeah. She was really hot over that. Look, I have to go. I have a class, too, and—”
“Sure,” said Pawkins. “You go ahead
Warren stood, cradling sheet music to his chest, and took a step away.
“One last thing,” Pawkins said.
Warren turned.
“How