Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (11 page)

“He treated me like an equal,” Vi mused. “Not all of them are like that. He made me talk to the principals—made sure I met them all and that they acknowledged me. Like I was one of them, not just chorus.”

“Well, you are more than chorus. The apprentice program is a big deal.”

She nodded. “I know. But Victor said I should pretend I had already finished it, and was moving on to a career. He said if I acted like an equal, they would treat me like one.”

“And is that true?”

“Mostly. Sandra—Miss Usher—has been nice. She even invited me to come to tea here this week. She’s bringing a bunch of people.”

“Is she? I haven’t had time to look at the reservations.”

“Yes, on Tuesday. I can’t come; I have a rehearsal. But it was nice of her to invite me.”

“Were she and Mr. Solano close?”

Vi met my gaze with an inquiring look.

“Apparently he spoke well of the tearoom,” I said. “We’re getting a lot of reservations from the opera crowd this week. I wondered who might be spreading the word.”

“Oh. Well, it could be Sandra. I don’t know. She was friends with Victor, but she’s seeing someone else.”

Hm. I wondered if it was the tenor, David Ebinger. I didn’t want to press Vi for gossip.

“Do you like her?” I asked instead.

She sipped her tea. “Yes. It helps that I’m a mezzo. That sounds petty, but it really is true that people are competitive. There’s so much money involved. It makes people act crazy.”

“I have no idea what opera singers are paid. Is it a good living?”

“Well, it depends on a lot of things. The company’s budget, whether you’re a principal, past reviews, all that. I won’t be making much until I have some solo roles under my belt, but the top performers are paid pretty well.”

“While they’re on top.”

She smiled, laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Yes, exactly. It’s like dancers, or even sports stars. Their time at the top is limited, so they have to make the most of it.”

“What do you think you’ll do next?”

“Apply for my second season, if they’ll have me. Apprentices are allowed to return once.”

“And after that?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “See who else will hire me.”

“Are there any companies you’d especially like to get into?”

“Well, the Met, of course, but they won’t take me yet. I’ll probably have to go to Europe for a couple of years.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“As long as I can afford it. I don’t want to be a burden on my mom.”

“Maybe we could do some fund-raising for you. Would you like to sing here again? You could have the profits after I cover my costs.”

“Ellen! That’s so sweet of you!”

“Well, I want to support you. I’m your second-biggest fan, right?”

She put down her teacup and reached over to hug me. She smelled freshly-scrubbed, soap with a hint of verbena.

“You’re so good to me,” she said.

I gave her shoulders a squeeze, then let her go. “We’ll talk about it after the season.”

“Yes.”

It occurred to me that her return to the tearoom, if it happened at all, would be temporary. Eventually she’d fly—off to Europe or somewhere, wherever she found a company that would give her a chance. I’d be sorry to lose her, but happy to see her realize her dreams.

“When you’re at the Met, I’ll come to New York to see you.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. I can stay with my brother.” I picked up the pot, which felt suspiciously light. Lifting the lid, I saw that there was less than a cupful of tea left. “I can make some more.”

“No, I’d better be going. But thank you so much, Ellen.”

“Let’s do this again. Next week? Or the week after?”

“Starting next Monday we go to the full performance schedule. I’ll only have a couple of days off in August.”

“Let’s touch base later this week, and if you’re not too exhausted we’ll get together on Sunday.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I walked with her to the back door, waved goodbye from the
portal
, and watched her drive away. Returning to Marigold to tidy up, I thought back over what she’d told me.

It sounded like there were some tensions—social, and maybe political—going on behind the scenes at the Opera. That didn’t surprise me. I’d done some amateur theatre in high school, and there was more drama backstage than onstage, or so it had seemed.

I carried my tray to the kitchen, unloaded the china into the dishwashing station, and turned the oven on low to get ready for candying the violets. I emptied the ones I had cut into a colander, then decided I might as well do them all at once, and went out to the garden with scissors and a small basket. Another fifty flowers were snipped, leaving the violet bed severely depleted.

I eyed the bowls of pansies I had on the
portal
. Not yet, I decided, but if the violets I’d ordered didn’t arrive, I’d have to raid the pansies.

I carried my booty back to the kitchen, added it to the violets in the colander, gently washed them all and left them to dry while I went upstairs to attend to my various unanswered messages.

Mr. Ingraham wanted to invite me to dinner on Friday. “Just a small, at-home gathering,” he said. “Bring Tony.”

“I’ll have to see. It’s going to be a busy week, and I might be working late on Friday.”

“Well, call me in a couple of days, when you have a better idea.”

“I will, thanks.”

I called Willow, and was guiltily grateful when it went to voicemail. Probably she was running a tour. I left a brief message, then dialed Gina. Voicemail again; she might be showing properties.

I checked for texts, sent Rosa a thank-you and yes, please ask your brother to come in, and emailed the tearoom staff warning that it would be a busy week and asking anyone who was willing to work overtime to let me know.

A sense of doom had been growing on me. I gave in and brought up our reservations calendar.

The whole week was booked solid through Saturday, including the outdoor tables, and there were half a dozen names on the waiting list. Kris had booked seatings up through 6:00 p.m. every day, which meant we’d be open until 7:00 or later.

My heart gave a small lurch of dismay, and I started making notes for Monday’s grocery order. We’d need extra eggs, butter, and cream, probably more lemons, and sliced almonds, just for starters. I’d check with Julio before placing the orders.

Curiosity made me look for Sandra Usher’s reservation. I didn’t find her name, but a party under the name of Kowalski had booked the dining parlor for Tuesday afternoon.

The dining parlor was usually the last room to be scheduled, because it was large and not as cozy as the flower seating areas. It had a full, formal dining table rather than the comfy chairs and low tables that filled the rest of the tearoom. Larger groups, like showers and birthday parties, landed in the dining parlor, but it mostly stood empty.

It wouldn’t, this week. Except when large parties had the room, Kris had two smaller parties booked to share the dining table, something we’d talked about but never had to do. I would have to put all the leaves in the table. Maybe do a big floral centerpiece, to give the two parties a little separation.

It was going to be a tough week. I was grateful for the business, but couldn’t help wishing the timing had been different.

I went down to the kitchen, got out an egg, and cracked the white into a small bowl, putting away the yolk for later. I tossed the violets in the colander, emptied them onto a paper towel and spread them out to dry a little more while I washed the china from Vi’s visit. Then I moved the violets to a parchment-lined cookie sheet, painted them with egg white, sprinkled sugar over them, and stuck them in the oven, turning it off.

I took perverse satisfaction in writing a note to stick on the oven door: CANDIED VIOLETS, DON’T TOUCH.

Julio was always leaving notes like that.

Deciding I needed to de-stress, I fixed myself a glass of ice water and carried it out front. Sun shone through the wisteria vines to dapple the front
portal
. The breeze was kicking up stronger.

I stepped down and strolled through the garden, enjoying the roses’ fragrance and the bright eyes of anemones, zinnias, and daisies in the beds by the house. The camellia and the two peonies I had planted a year ago were starting to thrive. I pondered whether I could make dahlias happy, maybe against the south wall.

Over the mountains, the clouds were a mashed-potato heap. I wondered if Manny’s grilling would get rained out, then decided he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d be out there with an umbrella if necessary. I could see him hunched against the rain, with the grill moved into the most sheltered corner of Nat’s patio, shielding his precious meats with his body.

My stomach grumbled. The last time I’d eaten something besides tea food was yesterday morning. I didn’t want to have lunch before Manny’s feast, but I needed something to tide me over, so I went up to my suite and had an apple and a slice of cheese.

With a few hours of leisure before I was expected at Nat’s, I decided to try to find out a little more about Victor Solano. I walked across the hall to my office, pushed the tearoom paperwork aside, and started web-surfing.

I found a number of Victor Solanos besides the singer. No website, but he was listed on several opera company websites, mostly from past seasons, and on SFO’s for the current season. I’d already read his bio, so I skimmed the company listings and looked for articles that mentioned him.

I found several reviews, including a recent one in the Albuquerque Journal about his Scarpia at SFO. Glowing. Most of the others were positive, but one New York critic apparently disliked his voice, not only in the opera he was reviewing but in a couple of previous ones he saw fit to mention.

That smacked of politics to me. How had Solano managed to offend that particular reviewer?

Out of curiosity I surfed on the reviewer’s name, resulting in a long list of reviews and one rather petulant blog post from, apparently, an ex-boyfriend.

Wild scenario: gay reviewer makes a pass at opera singer, is turned down, and retaliates with slam review.

Pretty far-fetched. I went back to surfing Solano, this time keeping an eye out for any romantic associations.

I found none.

Absolute zero; not even a photo of him out on a date. Apparently he was very private about his romantic affairs.

Why would a man be so protective of his love-life? Particularly a celebrity who was often in the spotlight and who enjoyed it. I’d expect such a person to show off his romantic conquests, not hide them.

Possibly he was into some weird kink that could damage his career if it were known.

Or was illegal.

I frowned at my monitor. That just didn’t fit with the man I’d met, though any stage performer was capable of convincing deception. But to me he had felt like a good person. I’d known a few bad ones, and just being in their presence had made me uncomfortable. I didn’t react that way to Victor Solano.

I sighed, unable to unravel that particular knot. Not enough information. I’d try again later.

I surfed on Neil Passaggio and found a few articles. He was a former singer, which I hadn’t known, and an up-and-coming director of opera. One article called him a “fiery tenor.”

Unlike Solano, he showed off his romances. There were lots of photographs of him with young singers from three years or more ago. Then a huge barrage of announcements of his wedding, followed by a bunch of pictures of him and his wife.

The arguing woman. Arguing with him, and yelling at Sandra Usher.

She didn’t look argumentative in the photos I found online. I was surprised to see that her smile made her look quite lovely.

She was not involved in opera, unlike many of the women in photos of Passaggio that predated her advent. Michelle Passaggio (née Martin) had been an interior designer before her marriage. If she had continued that career, I didn’t find any mention of it. She looked to me rather like a trophy wife, except that she was classier than most.

And trophy wives were often gold-diggers, which I just didn’t see in Michelle. As a director, Passaggio would certainly make good money, but he was no Donald Trump.

Well, enough of that. I was starting to feel like a stalker.

I shut down my computer and went downstairs to the dining parlor to pull the extra leaves for the table out of the closet. As I stepped up to the door, the floor creaked beneath my foot and gave a little.

“Oh, blast.”

I did not need to have to repair the floor right now, thank you. I prodded the offending board again with my toe and it wiggled. Not good.

Getting down on my hands and knees, I pulled back the corner of the oriental rug that filled most of the room, and looked more closely at the floor boards. I didn’t see any rot, for which I was thankful.

The loose board was right up against the corner of the room, an end piece about eighteen inches long. It looked slightly narrow, and I wondered if it might have shrunk. The floor was old: solid oak, possibly original to the house. In Santa Fe’s dry climate, wood shrank and warped and twisted in all kinds of interesting ways.

I pushed at the loose board to see how much I could wiggle it. It slid to one side and then away from the wall. I poked at it and the end near me popped up, surprising me into making a startled noise.

The near end was sticking up about half an inch. I took hold of it and gave a gentle tug, and the whole piece came up.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

I’d broken my floor.

The piece of wood itself was undamaged. Maybe it really had just shrunk.

I peered at the space beneath, thinking unhappy thoughts about spiders. The floor was sprung, and I could see one of the supports running across the gap close to me. At the other end of the space was something I took for a clump of insulation.

Except that if this was the original floor, it probably wasn’t insulated.

I looked closer. Maybe it was an old sock or something; it looked whitish.

I laid the board aside and fetched a flashlight from the kitchen. Shining it into the gap, I saw that what I’d taken for insulation was actually paper.