Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [9]
“Aha,” he said. “So you’re to blame
She feigned dismay, laughed, and said, “Guilty as charged, although I’m incapable of demonstrating remorse.” Her accent was British, her easy laugh universal. “No matter, I’m absolutely delighted that you’ve joined the cast for Tosca.” She took a step back and slowly, deliberately looked him up and down. “You’ll make a fine monk, Mr. Smith, and we all know that monks get by on very little money, which is good because we pay our supers very little
“I get paid, too?” he said.
“A fortune for a monk. Twenty-eight dollars a performance, eight dollars per rehearsal. There’ll be eight rehearsals. Eight times eight is sixty-four dollars. Egads, you’ll be the richest monk in the monastery. Of course, a whole world of college kids ate off the two bucks they were paid as supers at the Met years back.” To Annabel: “The money will make up for your darling hubby’s commitment to celibacy, I’m sure.” She scooped an oversized purse off the bar. “Must run. See you at seven. Delighted to meet you, Mackensie Smith. Your wife is one of my favorite people in the world
“I like your friend,” Mac said, taking a stool next to Annabel.
“She’s a dynamo. Used to be an actress in London and Hollywood
“We’d better get something to eat,” Mac said. “I’d hate to make my stage debut on an empty stomach.”
• • •
Genevieve Crier had instructed all supers to enter through the Opera House’s stage door, just inside one of the main entrances to the Kennedy Center. Annabel gave their names to an older gentleman manning the door, who dutifully checked them off against a list on a clipboard and told them where the supers were congregating. This turned out to be a large dressing room one level below the theater itself. Genevieve was already there with two men, whom she introduced to the Smiths. The rest of the supers drifted in over the next fifteen minutes—a navy commander; an orthopedic surgeon; a Department of Agriculture auditor; two housewives from WNO’s vast corps of volunteers; a nightclub bouncer; a retired botanist; Mac’s college colleagues; Christopher Warren, the Canadian pianist from the Young Artists program; and someone Mac hadn’t seen in a couple of years, Raymond Pawkins, a retired Washington MPD Homicide detective.
Their paths had crossed a number of times when Smith was representing criminal defendants, and Pawkins had been the lead investigator in those cases. Of all the Homicide detectives Smith had run across in his previous career, Pawkins stood out from the crowd. A tall, beanpole of a man with a prominent hooked nose beneath which a dark gray moustache was carefully trimmed, he wore khaki slacks with a razor-sharp crease, a blue button-down shirt, a white linen sport jacket, and loafers shined to a mirror finish. Smith remembered only too well those times when Pawkins testified against his criminal clients, always impeccably dressed and well spoken, terse or almost effete at times, answering Mac’s cross-examinations with deliberate care, never exaggerating and always on-message. He was impossible to fluster on the stand, not only because of the impressive image he presented to juries, but because he’d gone by the book in his investigations, missing little in the way of evidence and organizing his findings with exquisite attention to detail. After shaking hands and introducing Annabel to him, snippets of Pawkins’ life came back to Mac. They’d had lunches and dinners together at the conclusion of a few cases, the outcome now a matter of public record, their opposing views left back in the courtroom.
Pawkins had never married, as far as Mac knew, and was deeply interested in the arts, his erudition in stark contrast to most detectives. The last time they’d been together, Pawkins was finishing up a master’s degree in 19th century art at Georgetown, and was an enthusiastic member of the National Cathedral’s chorus. Unusual pursuits for a cop.
“I didn’t know you were an opera buff, Mac,” Pawkins said in a