Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [95]
“Looking forward to it,” Mac said, turning to see whether Annabel had arrived.
“Where’s your lovely wife?” Pawkins asked.
“Helping protect the president,” Mac replied.
“How exciting,” said Pawkins. “She packing heat these days?”
Mac thought of a double entendre, but stifled the urge. “She’s conferring with the Secret Service about the president’s visit to the Opera Ball
“I am impressed,” Pawkins said. “The fate of the free world rides on your wife’s beautiful shoulders
Genevieve bounded away to take care of something backstage.
“Hopefully, they won’t just be marking,” Pawkins said, his eyes on where a row of chairs was being set up. The musicians in the pit went through their ablutions, the tuning of the myriad instruments creating a cacophonous, atonal wash of sound, but not unpleasant.
“Marking what?” Mac asked, feeling he had to.
“Not giving it their all vocally. Going through the motions. I understand the soprano, our Madame Tosca, is fighting a cold, although I’m told she always claims to be on the verge of a terminal head cold. Never misses a performance, though. Likes the attention, I suppose
“Anything new on the Lee murder?” Mac asked.
“No, but I’m on the case. It looks more and more like Chris Warren is taking center stage
“And the Musinski murder? You said new evidence has shed light on it
“For me, Grimes, the guy who was a grad assistant to Musinski, is the culprit.” He laughed. “I sound more and more like a private eye, don’t I, ‘packing heat’ and ‘culprits’? Next I’ll be talking about gats, gams, and molls
Genevieve returned with some of the other supers in tow, including Mac’s boss at GW, Wilfred Burns, who said he was taking advantage of the change in schedule to catch up on things back at his office.
“Where’s the young pianist, Warren?” Mac whispered to Genevieve.
“I told him earlier of the new schedule and he’s opted to stay away,” she replied in her own low voice. “Is he—?”
Mac finished her thought. “A suspect?” he said. “Everyone is, Genevieve
As Burns was about to leave, he leaned close to Mac and asked, “Is there anything new?”
“No,” Mac said, uncomfortable at having ended up the conduit for such information. He looked to where Pawkins was chatting with another super, the navy commander. He’d been tempted since seeing Pawkins to mention the call from Josephson and to relay the final line of their most recent phone conversation: “The scores are no longer missing.” Certainly, Pawkins would be interested in this development, and by extension so would the detectives working the Musinski case. But Mac had determined that until he knew more, there was nothing to be gained by passing along Josephson’s offhand comment. Maybe it wasn’t true. All Smith had to go on was what a man he hadn’t seen in two years had said to conclude a telephone conversation. Yes, if the Mozart-Haydn string quartets had surfaced, they might help point a finger in the direction of whomever had killed Musinski. If Mac decided there was credence to what Josephson had to say, he wouldn’t hesitate to share it with Pawkins. So for now, and until after his dinner with Josephson, he’d keep it to himself. It wasn’t easy.
Annabel arrived shortly after the Sitzprobe had started, and the singers, including the soprano and tenor leads and lesser characters, had begun running through the music with the orchestra. During a break, when the conductor stopped the aria being sung to adjust something in the orchestra’s score, Annabel said quietly to Mac, “What’s this dinner tonight all about?”
He started to respond, but the rehearsal resumed, and they fell silent. The music was lovely, the power and richness of the voices sending chills up Mac’s back at times. He was torn; he wanted to be there to enjoy the music, but at the same time he wanted to be where he could fill in Annabel about Josephson before meeting with him.
A natural pause occurred a few minutes past eight when the soprano announced she wasn’t feeling