Bantam of the Opera (16 page)

“Well, thank you very much,” said Phyliss, preening a bit. “I've just about got this floor done for the day. Not that it's easy for a woman of my age and poor constitution to keep up such a pace, but the Good Lord gives me extra strength to compensate for the crosses He's made me bear. Like bunions. You wouldn't believe how they ached when we had that rain. Praise the Lord for the sunshine. Even my lumbago is better. At least some,” she added grudgingly.

“I'm glad,” said Judith, starting to rewind her answering machine. As usual, there were calls for reservations, three from out of state, two from the other side of the mountains. Judith consulted her calendar. “I'll sure be happy when this bunch is gone,” she said, more to herself than to Phyliss.

“Well, you got rid of one of 'em,” the cleaning woman remarked, getting the hand vacuum out of the hall cupboard.

“I hardly intended to do it that way,” Judith responded wryly. “Murder isn't my idea of canceling a guest stay.”

“Oh, I don't mean that Eye-talian singer,” said Phyliss,
checking to make sure the vacuum cleaner belt was in place. “I mean the slut.”

“Slut?” Judith stared at Phyliss. “Who?”

Phyliss made an exasperated face at her employer. “The harlot. With her short skirts and tight clothes that would tempt a preacher. Skippy? Bippy? Trippy?”

Judith blocked Phyliss's exit to the back stairs. “Tippy? What do mean, Phyliss? Where did she go?”

Phyliss shrugged, sausage curls bouncing. “How do I know? I went up to tell her it was the last call for breakfast, waited half an hour, didn't see her come down, decided she'd gone out, went back to do up her room—and she was gone. Cleared out, luggage, everything. She must have left while I was in the basement doing the wash. Good riddance, I'd say.” Phyliss barreled past Judith, using the vacuum as a wedge. “That lady was no lady, I tell you. She was a
tramp
.”

Even though Phyliss had disappeared up the stairs, Judith still stared.

 

Winston Plunkett was in the upstairs hallway, using the house phone. He had turned the wicker settee and matching end table into a makeshift office. Judith waited for him to finish his call, which he was conducting in what sounded like flawless French.

“Paris,” he said five minutes later, when he had put down the phone. “It's evening over there, but I've had trouble reaching the director of the Paris Opera. Fortunately, I caught him just as he was leaving for dinner.”

Judith sat down next to Plunkett, who seemed surprised at her apparent attempt at intimacy. Mrs. Pacetti's room, however, was a mere eight feet across the hall, and Judith didn't want to risk being overheard.

“Mr. Plunkett, do you know where Tippy is?”

Plunkett's face was blank. “No. I assumed she was overly tired and had slept in.” He glanced at the door to Tippy's room which was at a right angle to Amina's. “She's not in there?”

Judith shook her head, then got up and went to open the door. Plunkett followed her. “See?” said Judith. “Everything seems to be gone, just as Mrs. Rackley told me.”

To make sure, Judith checked the closet, the bureau, the dressing table, and under the bed. Phyliss hadn't yet finished doing up the room, but it was cleaned out as far as Tippy de Caro's possessions were concerned.

“Why…I'm flummoxed!” declared Plunkett. “She never said a word to me! I can't believe she left like this, without giving notice. Do you think she's been arrested?” Something akin to panic seemed to pass over Plunkett's long face.

Judith supposed that his reaction could be considered normal under the circumstances. But she thought he was wrong. If Tippy had been charged, or even taken downtown for questioning, Woody would have let Judith know.

“I think she left under her own power,” said Judith. “Where's Schutzendorf?”

Plunkett looked uncomfortable. “Uh…we had a bit of a dustup. He insisted on using the phone, too, but I gather he hadn't asked your permission.
I
had,” the business manager went on with the air of a schoolboy who has received a special favor from his teacher, “so I told him he'd better find another phone somewhere else. I suspect he went down to the bottom of the Hill to one of the business establishments that has a pay phone.”

“I see.” Judith nudged a bureau drawer that wasn't fully closed, then went back into the hall. She stopped to knock on Mrs. Pacetti's door. Edna Fiske appeared, holding a blood pressure kit. Beyond the nurse, Judith could see Amina, sitting up in bed with more magazines and yet another flowing peignoir. She did not seem to be overcome with grief.

“How's the patient?” Judith asked as Plunkett hovered behind her.

“Stable,” replied Edna in hushed tones. “She was quite distressed last night. I had to give her a sedative. That was really dreadful news. In my opinion, poisoning people is
unacceptable behavior.” Her severe look indicated she blamed Judith for such social aberrations.

“It's pretty rotten,” Judith agreed, not wanting to get sidetracked by Edna's moralizing. “Have you or Mrs. Pacetti seen Tippy de Caro this morning?”

Again, Edna looked disapproving. “I haven't.” She turned to Mrs. Pacetti and repeated Judith's question. Amina glanced up from her magazine, gave a slight shake of her head, and again buried her nose in the pages of haute couture.

“Thanks,” said Judith, starting to back away. But both Edna and Plunkett were on the move, almost colliding with each other as the nurse came through the door and the business manager tried to enter.

“Excuse me, so sorry,” exclaimed Plunkett. “I just wanted a word with Mrs. Pacetti. If that's permissible, Nurse?”

It was. Plunkett continued on into the room, closing the door behind him. With a brief nod at Judith, Edna started for the stairs, still carrying the blood pressure kit.

“Where are you going?” Judith called after the nurse.

Edna looked up through the spindles of the bannister. “Mrs. Rackley feels an aneurism coming on. Or so she says. I'm going to check her out.” Edna Fiske gave no hint of humor or irony as she headed off on another healing mission. Judith had the feeling that if asked, Edna would have taken the temperature of the maple tree in the front yard.

But Tippy de Caro was Judith's priority. She would have to tell Woody Price that the young woman had left Hillside Manor. Judith went up to the third floor to use her private line. To her surprise, the door to her bedroom stood open. Bruno Schutzendorf's voice rumbled out into the little foyer. Annoyed, Judith started into the room, then suddenly stopped. Schutzendorf was sitting on the bed, his bulk making the mattress sag, and his face turned away from the door. He was speaking in English; Judith re
treated behind the potted weeping fig that stood between her room and Mike's.

“Clauses, clauses, clauses!” Schutzendorf was roaring into the phone. “I care not for your clauses! I know one thing, and one thing only—the man is dead! The police say murder, poison, deliberate! And that means you pay more, eh?”

Judith held her breath. Schutzendorf must be talking to an insurance company. Would Cherubim Records insure Pacetti's life?
Probably
, Judith reflected, thinking of various athletes and movie stars. At least there would be some compensation for Pacetti's loss.

“Vait? How long?” Schutzendorf had lowered his voice a notch, but Judith certainly didn't have to strain to hear him. “Six months! Ridiculous!” He paused, then continued on a more reasonable note. “Of course I understand your position. It is that I am upset beyond measure. Mario Pacetti is irreplaceable. Mere money is no consolation. And I do not like the red tape, the details, the
clauses
. I will be speaking with you again very soon.
Auf wieder-sehen
.”

Judith made a few quick steps around the potted fig, as if she were coming out of Mike's room. But Schutzendorf was making another call, asking for assistance from the international operator to connect him to a number in Hamburg. After a minute or more had passed, she heard him speaking in German. Judith decided to confront Schutzendorf.

“Ahem,” she said from the doorway.

Schutzendorf barely looked in her direction. He held up a hand for silence. Judith leaned on the doorframe, tapping her foot. Schutzendorf continued speaking in rapid German. Judith emitted a series of impatient sighs. Schutzendorf took out a pen and started to write on Judith's flowered bedspread.

Judith resurrected two of the few German phrases she knew. “
Achtung! Halten sie!
Stop!” She flew into the
room, barely able to refrain from pouncing on the German. “Don't you dare, that has to be dry-cleaned!”

“Vat?” Schutzendorf looked genuinely startled, even a trifle chagrined. “Oh,
ja, ja,
the counterpane. My apologies.” He resumed his conversation, which fortuitously seemed to be at its conclusion. Judith strolled around the room, tidying up a bit.

“Danke,”
said Schutzendorf, rising from the bed. The mattress remained in its sagging position. “Your housekeeper kindly permitted me to use this phone. I thank you many times.”

Telling herself to give Phyliss a swift kick, Judith tried to keep her exasperation with Schutzendorf to a minimum. “Next time, ask me, not Mrs. Rackley,” said Judith, making an attempt at a smile. “By the way, have you seen Ms. de Caro this morning?” Judith wasn't optimistic about the reply.

But Schutzendorf surprised her. “Yes, yes, so I did. I awakened early. Your bed is firm, it is comfortable—but small. I toss and turn in my sleep, like a ship on the ocean—roll, pitch, heave, twist.” Judith was getting the picture; she marveled that Schutzendorf didn't just plain capsize. Dan had done that once, upending their mattress and sending Judith sliding feetfirst into a basket of dirty laundry at the foot of the bed. It had been a very strange way to wake up. “So,” Schutzendorf continued, “I rose and went for a walk. The morning was fine, not like the rain of these past days. Upon my return, I saw Fräulein de Caro getting into a car and driving off.”

“A car or a cab?” inquired Judith.

“A car,” asserted Schutzendorf. “Not a German make, so I can't say what kind. But a man was driving, I believe.”

Judith had a hand at her breast. “What color?”

“The man?”

“No, the car.”

“Gray.”

Judith was not surprised.

W
OODY WAS OUT
to lunch when Judith called. Renie had already departed for her press check, but had left a message of her own on her cousin's machine. There would be at least two more press checks that afternoon, forcing Renie to stay at the printer's, or at least keep close to her phone. Could Judith do her a huge favor and run down to the box office at the bottom of the Hill to pick up the replacement tickets for Wednesday night?
Please?
Naturally, Judith would.

She took care of her business messages while waiting for a return call from Woody. Phyliss was upstairs doing the guest rooms. Her blood pressure had been normal. She refused to believe it.

“Not on a day like this,” she had said, “getting off to such a bad start with that heathen in the backyard. I know I'm due for a spell.”

Judith had made a sound of assent, then sat by the phone trying to guess Tippy's whereabouts. With typical German precision, Schutzendorf had pinpointed her departure at 6:26
A
.
M
. Judith probably had been in the shower at the time. It was now after 1:00
P
.
M
. In the ensuing six hours, Tippy could have gone just about anywhere, including out of the country.

Woody called back at ten minutes after one. Judith's news caused the usually stoic policeman to lose his composure.

“Darnit!” he exclaimed. “I told her not to go anywhere! Why didn't Schutzendorf tell somebody she'd left?”

“A fair question,” said Judith. “I suppose he didn't realize she was going for good. That's assuming she has, but I would think that's the case as she took all her belongings with her.”

Woody's sigh heaved over the line. “Okay, we'll do the routine check of the airport, the bus and train depots, the Canadian border. I take it Schutzendorf couldn't describe the car or the driver?”

“He was sure it was a man at the wheel, but he didn't get a good look at him. In fact, it was still dark and I guess the only glimpse he caught was when the light went on inside as Tippy got in. As for the car, all he knew was that it was gray but not a German make.”

“Hmmm.” Woody was back in control of his emotions. “No Volkswagen, Mercedes, BMW—what else? That still leaves a lot of automobile manufacturers.”

Judith told Woody about the gray vehicle Arlene had seen the day the Pacettis arrived. She also mentioned that Inez Garcia-Green and Justin Kerr had arrived at Hillside Manor in a gray car.

“I think it was a smallish sedan,” she said. “But it was dark and rainy. I couldn't see it very well.”

“I don't suppose your neighbor noticed much about the car that was parked down the street,” said Woody in a resigned voice.

“Arlene? She'd notice more than most people. I'd ask, if I were you. I didn't because it hadn't seemed important. Now, maybe it is.”

Woody agreed, then rang off. He had a full plate, with no time for idle speculation. Judith wished Renie would get back from the printer's. She needed someone to help her toss around ideas.

Except, she realized as she went downstairs to forage in
the freezer, she didn't have any. There were no convincing motives for Pacetti's murder. There was no one who benefited more from his death than from his life. There was no logic to the case, and the lack of orderly commonsense hypotheses and conclusions cast Judith adrift. All she could cling to were a batch of inconsistencies. The Pacettis had made an unpublicized visit to the city; someone had sent seemingly threatening missives to Hillside Manor; a gray car was showing up on a fairly regular basis; Tippy de Caro had defied police orders and fled; Inez Garcia-Green had made not one but two visits to the B&B; Justin Kerr had no knack for arranging flowers; Inez and Mario were ex-lovers, while Amina and Plunkett were currently engaged in an affair; Schutzendorf was merely…Schutzendorf.

Judith gave herself a good shake, hauled a package of pork chops out of the freezer, and trudged upstairs. It was still sunny and clear outside, a perfect day for putting in her spring bulbs. Judith grabbed the bags from the back hallway, picked up a trowel from the porch, and headed for the flower bed by the toolshed.

“No, you don't, Missus.” Skjoval Tolvang waved a saw at Judith. “Can't you see I'm vorking here?”

“Hey, come on, Mr. Tolvang,” begged Judith. “It won't take ten minutes. If I don't get these in now, we may have a frost and then I won't be able to plant them at all. Have you taken a lunch break?”

Tolvang looked at Judith as if she'd asked him if he'd poured gasoline over himself and lighted a match. “Lunch break? Vat kind of loafer no-good do you think I am? Coffee, that's all I need, strong and black, the kind that can put holes in a two-by-four.”

“But you're working inside now,” Judith pointed out. Indeed, the carpenter had already ripped out all of the old, unusable parts of the toolshed and had begun to frame up the new section. As always, Judith was impressed.

Tolvang squinted at Judith. “Ten minutes? Okay, do your digging, goddamit. And a lot of good it vill do you,
ven those raccoons come and eat it all up. Vy don't you get that plug-ugly cat of yours to chase away these animals? At least he could tackle them pesky squirrels.”

“I told you,” Judith said staunchly, “Sweetums doesn't live here anymore. But he'll probably come back with Mother.” She flinched at the thought.

“Then you got neighbor cats hanging around out here. Hunters, too. One of 'em got a bird.” He handed Judith a big black feather. “Why can't they get together and scare off the other varmints?”

Judith glanced at the feather. “They aren't organized. You know how it is with cats; they're too independent.”

“And so am I,” Tolvang declared. “Are you going to dig or vat?”

Judith beamed at the carpenter. Down on her knees, she began to work the ground quickly and efficiently. She almost dropped the trowel when a voice sounded at her elbow.

“Gopher Purge,” said Phyliss Rackley.

“Huh?” Judith swiveled. Phyliss had on her coat and was carrying her purse and a shopping bag. “You startled me, Phyliss. Are you leaving already?”

“That's right. I forgot to tell you I have an appointment with my dentist at three. My teeth have been acting up something cruel. It may be my gums, to tell the truth, or it could even be that neuralgia.” She gazed through the open beams of the toolshed, where Skjoval Tolvang was hammering away like crazy. “The Devil's Workshop,” she muttered. “I tell you, he's possessed.”

“Mmm-mm.” Judith started to put the bulbs into the holes she'd dug. “What did you say about gophers?”

“I said Gopher Purge. It works. And you've got 'em. Here,” she went on, pointing to the strip where Judith was planting, “and over there by the bay window in the living room.”

“Well…” Judith wasn't convinced. In her experience, gophers tended to dig all over the yard, not only in the flower beds, but under the lawn. Squirrels and raccoons
went for the bulbs, none of which grew next to the house by the living room. That space was reserved for a half dozen rosebushes, several lupines, a couple of sweet lavender clumps, and her lilies of the valley. “I'll think about it,” Judith said at last, not wanting to argue further with Phyliss.

“You do that.” The cleaning woman plodded down the driveway, her purse in one hand, the shopping bag in the other.

“You talk too much,” shouted Tolvang. “You got four minutes left.”

Judith made a face. “Right, right,” she grumbled. The last of the tulips went in; then two dozen daffodils. “Done,” she called to Tolvang even as she started to crumple the paper bag that had contained the bulbs. “Wait—I forgot about the hyacinth bonus. I've got just three of them.” Judith dug deeper.

Her trowel hit something hard. A rock, she thought, and swore under her breath. But the surface was smooth. Judith used the trowel to try to dislodge the object. It felt more like a piece of pipe. As the dirt fell away, she saw a shiny red surface. Putting the trowel aside, Judith started to remove the dirt with her bare hands. A moment later, she realized what she had uncovered. With a tug, she wrested the large thermos from the ground.

“Time's up!” shouted Tolvang. He hammered on a metal bucket for emphasis.

Hurriedly, Judith dumped all three hyacinth bulbs into the trough left by the thermos. She replaced the dirt in a haphazard manner and fled toward the house.

“You don't have to run, Missus!” Tolvang called after her. “I vouldn't chase you, py golly! You're no supersnooper city inspector! You're yust my customer!”

Over her shoulder, Judith tossed him a lopsided grin.

 

Judith's excitement was somewhat quelled when she still couldn't reach Woody. But she did manage to flag down the ubiquitous squad car. An impassive Nancy Pren
tice and a blank-faced Stanley Cernak put the thermos into an evidence bag and drove off to headquarters. Seeing them turn out of the cul-de-sac reminded her that she still had an errand of her own to run. Ten minutes later, she was at the box office window outside the opera house, waiting in a fairly sizable line for Renie's tickets.

She still had a dozen people in front of her when Inez Garcia-Green emerged from a beige limo right behind Judith's blue compact, which she had dared to park in the Passenger Load Only zone. Briefly, Judith struggled with herself. She was still wearing her gardening clothes, baggy green slacks and rumpled striped rugby shirt. But curiosity won out over vanity. She darted from the line and headed straight for the soprano. Inez was accompanied by two other people, a man and a woman, who wore the harried air of faithful retainers. Inez wore a black swing coat over an exotic black-and-ivory silk print concoction that was as casual as it was elegant. Circlets of seed pearls adorned her ears and another pearl, big enough to give an oyster a hernia, was set in a gold ring and surrounded with diamonds. In full regalia, Inez Garcia-Green was a handsome woman. Judith realized how Mario Pacetti could have lost his head.

“Señora Garcia-Green!” exclaimed Judith with enthusiasm. “What a surprise! I've got used to seeing you more often at my house instead of the opera house.”

Inez's eyes narrowed at Judith as the retainers drew closer to their mistress, shielding her from the riffraff. “
Your
house?” The soprano looked as if she thought Judith lived in a septic tank. “Oh!” Apparently recognition dawned. “Yes, I know you. I return now to the world of music. The show goes on, as they say.” She gave Judith a curt nod and started to walk off toward the opera house.

“Mrs. Pacetti has a question for you,” Judith fibbed, trying not to be too obvious in blocking Inez's path. “She wanted to know where you got those marvelous flowers you brought her. She's got a funeral to plan, of course.”

Inez scowled at Judith, then turned to her female re
tainer, a small gray-haired woman with a slit of a mouth and worried black eyes. Inez spoke in rapid Spanish; Judith couldn't catch more than a couple of words. The female retainer answered in an abrupt, yet deferential, murmur. Inez turned back to Judith. “Justin Kerr commandeered them from the opera house. They were used as the centerpiece in Act I. Naturally, they would not be fresh for the next performance. Justin managed to get them before they struck the set. He's a very considerate young man.” Inez gave Judith an ingratiating smile that didn't match up with the chilly look in her eyes. “So you must tell Amina Pacetti that she should ask Mr. Layton of the opera company here. As for me, I know nothing about flowers. Absolutely nothing.” The smile had fled. Inez Garcia-Green practically walked right over Judith as she continued her procession to the opera house.

With a frown, Judith got back in line. She was now number seventeen. And all she had got for her time and trouble was the fact that Justin Kerr had been hanging around the supper table where the vial of Strophanthin had been found. Had she missed something? Judith moved up to sixteenth place. As far as the investigation was concerned, she felt as if she were dead last.

 

“Woody said not to expect fingerprints,” Judith told Renie as they indulged themselves in double mochas at Moonbeam's on top of Heraldsgate Hill. “But at least he can analyze the contents of the thermos.”

“And were there contents?” asked Renie for the third time.

Judith nodded so vigorously that the people at the table next to her stared. “I shook it. I'd say an inch of liquid anyway. I was afraid to open the thing for fear of spilling it.”

“Good work,” said Renie, putting extra sugar into her cup, then sprinkling the whipped cream with nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla. “No word on Tippy, though?”

Judith shook her head. “No. But that's not all bad news.
Woody says, as far as they can tell, she didn't take a plane, bus, or train out of town. Of course she might have disguised herself. And Arlene gave a pretty good description of that gray car—assuming it's the same one. She thinks it was a fairly new, small Ford compact sedan. She recognized it because she says Jeanne Ericson's folks have one just like it, except in white.”

“I guess that's progress,” remarked Renie, oblivious to the whipped cream that sat on her upper lip. “I've been thinking—if Mario and Amina came to town somewhere along the line, where did they stay? Maestro Dunkowitz hosted them the first time; you got stuck with them on this visit. If Pacetti had such an aversion to hotels, where else would he hole up? Is there any way you can check through the state B&B association?”

Judith considered. “I suppose. There are close to forty B&Bs in the city, not counting the suburbs. Maybe I could get the central reservations agency to do some checking.”

Renie took another swallow of her mocha, augmenting her mustache. “It's a real puzzler, isn't it?”

“It sure is. If I weren't afraid the murderer is—or was—under my roof, I'd run up the white flag and let Woody work his wonders.”