Bantam of the Opera (24 page)

Somewhat deflated, Judith shot a quick look at Renie. “Okay, Woody,” Judith said, “just don't blame me when Joe gets back from New Orleans and finds out this case is looser than a galloping goose.”

A brief expression of alarm crossed Woody's face. “Mrs. Flynn…
Judith
…I'm not trying to be a pain; I'm
just following police procedure. And,” he added on a wounded note, “having a baby.”

Stung, Judith grew remorseful. “I know. I'm sorry. I just want to get this thing solved. Not only have I lost a guest, but the contents of my refrigerator may be responsible.”

“She's right,” chimed in Renie. “What's really surprising is that it hasn't happened before. With her mother's leftovers, that is.”

Judith gave Renie the evil eye.
“Et tu, Brute,”
she muttered.

“Et pips,” Renie replied, turning to Woody. “Wait and see, Dad. I'm with Judith. I think Mario et them and if I've got my cousin figured, I also think she may know who dished them up. Right?” Her gaze returned to Judith.

Judith didn't respond.

C
ORAZON
P
EREZ HAD
left a message, so Judith called her back. The policewoman answered on the first ring. The handwriting expert had had some problems with the analysis.

“The surface of the rock gave him fits,” Corazon reported. “He had better luck with the paper. But bear in mind that the drawings were impossible to work with. He had no basis for comparison. At least the musical score gave him a couple of letters.”

“And?” Judith leaned away from Renie, who was practically on her neck trying to hear the conversation.

“He couldn't come to a conclusion.” Corazon sounded apologetic. “He won't discount Inez Double G—as they call her in the homicide division—but he really can't be sure. I'm sorry.”

Sensing that Corazon was eager to move on, Judith quickly asked her to describe the original bottle of Strophanthin. Sounding puzzled, Corazon sketched a brief word picture.

“That's it,” said Judith, more for Renie's benefit than for Corazon's. “When you see Woody Price,” she said into the receiver, “remind him I've got its mate. Empty. It may not be as cute as a baby bottle, but it could turn
out to be evidence.” Judith put down the phone. “Let's see if that doesn't get Woody back in the groove.”

“What about the rock?” Renie asked.

Judith grimaced at her cousin. “
Nada
, as Inez would say in her native Spain. Now I wish I'd asked her about that rock when I had the chance at the Cascadia this afternoon.”

Renie strolled to the refrigerator. “It's almost six. Aren't you doing hors d'oeuvres?”

“My guests are out,” Judith replied, fingering a note that had been left on the bulletin board. “They're all being hosted by Maestro Dunkowitz this evening. I suspect they're under the impression they may get to leave tomorrow. Woody didn't say so, though.”

“Woody's in Babyland,” Renie replied, scrutinizing a jar of extra small oysters. “What do you say we fry these up for dinner? I don't have anybody hanging around my house tonight either.”

“Fine,” Judith agreed, heading for the back stairs. “But first we grill Edna Fiske. After Corazon Perez, Edna's my next priority.”

But upstairs, there was no sign of Edna. The front bedroom she had taken over from Mario Pacetti was empty of personal belongings. Judith swore under her breath and hurried back down to the kitchen.

“She's flown the coop.” Flipping through the phone book, she found a listing for E. D. Fiske at an address only three blocks from Madge Navarre's condo. To Judith's relief, Edna answered on the third ring.

“I just got home,” said the nurse. “Mrs. Pacetti was somewhat ambivalent about my leave-taking, but patients shouldn't be babied. She clearly no longer requires professional nursing care. I prefer to offer my services to those who genuinely need me. Thank you, by the way, for your hospitality.”

“It was a relief for me to have you here,” Judith responded. “Medical assistance isn't a standard option at a
B&B. It must have been a great comfort for Mrs. Pacetti to have a nurse who had also treated her husband.”

There was a slight pause at the other end. “I can't say I
treated
him. Not in that sense. I merely assisted Dr. Feldman. Not that she could do anything, under the circumstances.”

Judith eyed Renie who was wearing an anxious expression. “I suppose not. Surgery was…uh…out of the question?”

“Definitely,” Edna asserted. “It leaves such scar tissue. Of course that was Mr. Pacetti's decision and he was free to change his mind.”

Judith rubbed at her forehead, trying to figure out in which direction she could go without sinking into the quicksand of ignorance. “Is it certain the scar tissue would have affected his voice adversely?”

“Almost always. For an ordinary person, it doesn't matter that much. But for a singer—well, you can imagine. Benign polyps wouldn't frighten most of us in the least. We could get along quite nicely with a bit of a rasp in the voice. But not someone who sings professionally. The condition was quite recent. In fact, I understand he'd had an insurance physical last December and they hadn't shown up then. He might have continued his career for a year or two. If he'd lived.” Edna's own voice struck a professionally bleak note.

Judith stifled a sigh of relief. It had been a guess, but a good one, considering Sheila Feldman's specialty and her referral of Edna Fiske to Mrs. Pacetti. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Judith hung up.

“Eureka!” she cried. “Now we're getting somewhere!”

“Are we on the same wavelength?” Renie inquired. “Pacetti with vocal cord trouble, right? Voice going before its time?”

“You got it.” Free from Edna Fiske's scrutiny, Judith made for the liquor cabinet. “Customs and Immigration will show that the Pacettis entered this country in April, probably, with the rhododendrons in bud. I don't know
where they stayed, but my guess is that somehow they got into the family housing at the Children's Medical Center across the street from Dr. Feldman's offices. Rules can be bent for somebody of Pacetti's stature.”

Renie had got out a pair of glasses and was putting ice into them. “So you're figuring that Pacetti's vocal problems may have something to do with his murder?”

Pouring bourbon for Renie and scotch for herself, Judith nodded. “It's possible. The trouble is, I can't figure out
what
. If money is a motive, which it often is, who benefits from his early demise? Amina, for one.”

“Schutzendorf, maybe,” suggested Renie. “Madge told me last night that his recording company would carry insurance on him. You know, like sports teams carry for their players.”

The cousins had gone into the living room where they sat on the matching sofas. Judith considered building a fire, but decided it was too warm. “Edna mentioned an insurance physical, last December. But the polyps didn't show up.”

“Let's check out motives,” Renie said. “Amina—unfaithful wife who collects insurance, estate, freedom. Not bad, huh?”

“Somehow I don't see Amina as seriously unfaithful. I mean, it sounds to me as if she took up with Plunkett just to get back at Mario for having the affair with Inez. Then he became a habit, like wearing mismatched socks. Unless…” Judith's forehead furrowed as she recalled Inez's reaction to the suggestion that Winston Plunkett was Amina's lover. “What if Melissa was wrong?”

“Melissa?” Renie looked askance. “Her reliability percentage is almost as high as Madge Navarre's.”

“But Melissa is working with gossip, not hard facts, like Madge.” Judith frowned at the bright little pumpkin lights that adorned the mantel. “What if Amina was having an affair—but not with Plunkett? Faithful old Winnie might make a good cover for something more serious. Let's face it, we've always had trouble swallowing the Passionate
Plunkett story. I can't help but figure that the only thing he does with his fly is tie one for fishing.”

Renie made a strange, bewildered face. “So Amina might have somebody else waiting in the wings. Hmmmm.”

“Could be. But then we need another motive for Plunkett,” Judith reminded her cousin.

“Did he know Mario was losing his voice?” Renie mused.

Judith inclined her head. “Possibly. Plunkett may have accompanied them in the spring to see Dr. Feldman. And now that I think about it, he didn't criticize Tippy for taking off after Pacetti got killed. In fact, he acted as if she'd made the right choice. I wonder…”

Renie sipped at her drink. “But why would Plunkett kill him? He could always quit—like Tippy did—and get another job.”

The jumbled blur of the past few days swirled around in Judith's brain. Words, so many words, in accents foreign and domestic…She couldn't remember all of them…And yet, there were snatches that came to mind.

“The night Pacetti died, Plunkett said something out in the kitchen…It was about his life's work, and then he…” With a sharp shake of her head, Judith gave the coffee table a kick. “Damn, I've lost it! Why do I keep feeling that if only I'd paid closer attention, I could put this thing together in logical order and figure it all out?”

Renie gave Judith a sympathetic look. “We know who was in the kitchen last Saturday—everybody. Among the guests, that is. The Pacettis, Plunkett, Tippy, and Schutzendorf. But Schutzendorf was also the only one of this crew who wasn't backstage before the performance Saturday night. Still, if he knew that Pacetti's career was going down the drain, he might have done him in out of sheer pique.”

“Not pique,” Judith countered. “He'd have done it for gain. I keep getting hung up on Justin Kerr and Inez Garcia-Green. Why did they show up here with a stolen
stage prop and an empty Strophanthin vial after Mario was murdered?”

Renie's short chin dipped toward her chest. “They grabbed the bouquet as an excuse. Did they know the bottle was in the plastic liner? If they—or one of them, either Justin or Inez—put it there, was the intention to get rid of evidence? Were there always two bottles, and whoever put the one into the bouquet dropped the other one by mistake? And if so, why was one empty and the other half-full? Then we get back to the big question—did the Strophanthin kill Pacetti, or was it the pips?”

“The medical examiner—and Edna Fiske, for that matter—aren't keen on the Strophanthin theory,” Judith noted. “So why in the world are these bottles floating around? I opt for them as a red herring. Then who does the Strophanthin point to?” When Renie didn't reply at once, Judith continued, her dark eyes suddenly glimmering with the kernel of an idea. “Schutzendorf has a prescription—don't ask me to pronounce it, it's probably got an ordinary name like ‘Blood Pump'—for heart problems. He got it at the hospital after he stayed there the other night. What if he needed it because somebody had swiped his Strophanthin?”

Renie's mouth twisted as she thought this latest theory through. “He shares a bathroom with Plunkett, but Amina and Tippy could have gone in there. Or…” Her face lighted up as she pummeled the arm of the sofa. “Inez and Justin could have done it while they were upstairs.”

Judith inclined her head. “
After
Pacetti was killed? Come on, coz, your brain is compost.”

Renie's eager expression changed to one of chagrin. “Well, if it were a red herring…”

Judith gave Renie a curious little glance, then sank farther into the sofa cushions. “I'm guessing, but I think Inez and Justin were looking for something. I still think Inez sent those so-called threats, just to be annoying. The woman has no sense of humor, and whatever amusement she gets out of life—other than performing, that is—has to be some weird
kind of thing, like getting people riled or scared or just plain put out. For all of her seeming indifference to the breakup with Mario, she may have been hurt. Or at least her vanity was wounded.”

Renie raised her eyebrows. “So she sends threats? I don't get it.”

“You're being dense, coz. Remember crank-calling boys in our youth?”

Renie made a wry face. “I don't remember our youth.”

“Emotionally, some women never get beyond that stage. If they feel wronged or rejected, they do strange things. Cousin Marty's ex-girlfriend sent him a pair of ostriches via UPS.”

“Marty is such a dope she should have sent a pair of brain surgeons to operate and find out if he had one. Yeah, I remember that now. Okay, okay, I'll buy petty harassment as a form of revenge. Rejected males beat the crap out of people—but females deliver. Or something.”

“So I think that after Mario was killed, Inez got scared. That's assuming she didn't do it, of course,” Judith said by way of clarification. “She came here to see if she could find the rock and the sheet of paper and make off with the evidence. Think how silly that would have looked in the press. If there's one thing Inez Garcia-Green doesn't want to be, it's belittled.”

“And after six or seven years, the Spurned Woman Theory doesn't wash, I suppose. But,” Renie went on, “what if she acted on behalf of her former stepson? Doesn't it strike you as odd that the minute Pacetti keels over, Schutzendorf signs up Justin?”

Judith regarded Renie with a quizzical expression. “It
is
odd. I wonder if Pacetti blackballed Justin with Cherubim Records? To spite Inez, maybe. Or at Amina's behest, to do ditto.”

Renie spread her hands. “Pacetti buys the farm, Schutzendorf has to buy himself a new tenor. And Justin trots along at Inez's side because he doesn't have that contract inked yet. Ambition can be a terrible thing.”

“True.” Judith had leaned forward, fingering her chin. On the coffee table, the jack-o'-lantern leered at her. “Maybe that's why Inez came the second time, to tell Amina that with Mario gone, Justin was going to get his big chance.” She stopped abruptly as a loud banging sounded at the back door. Both cousins hurried to the rear entrance.

Skjoval Tolvang, who had not been in evidence upon their return to the house, was standing on the porch, lighting his pipe. Out in the yard stood several large cartons. The carpenter sucked at his pipe, then gestured at the boxes.

“I collected your sink and shower and the rest,” he announced. “Tomorrow, they go in. Then I paint on Saturday and finish up the rest. I vork Sunday, if needs be. You vant a look-see?”

Judith—and Renie—did. The bed-sitting room was finished off, the small bathroom awaited its conveniences, the closet boasted shelving. New glass had been installed in the original casements that faced the garden. The cousins admired Tolvang's meticulous old-world craftsmanship.

“This is really wonderful,” breathed Judith. “Mother will be thrilled.”

“‘Thrilled?'” Renie snickered. “Come on, coz, she'll say it's about time and why didn't you add on a sauna?”