Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (19 page)

The guide was an older gentleman, a volunteer, who had been coming to the opera for decades. I listened impatiently while he talked about the history of the company and passed around some photos of John Crosby, the founder, and the first theatre. I kept thinking of Tony and what he’d be doing if he were there.

He’d be watching everyone but the tour guide, probably. I looked at my fellow tourists, all seemingly innocent. A couple were opera fanatics, and several were obviously not locals. Two tall women who were together wore grins of absolute delight. Reminded that I was supposed to be enjoying myself, I summoned a smile.

At last we moved, walking down to the gate and into the courtyard. As always, I glanced toward where the petunia beds had been. The fountain wasn’t running.

I had to wait through a couple of stops before we got into the house itself. I used the time to practice my Holmesian skills of observation: I looked at the guide and the tourists, trying to notice something about each, then I looked at my surroundings. The grounds were immaculately clean; no trash anywhere, not even any dead leaves. Someone was in the bar on the Stravinsky Terrace, cleaning.

When we finally entered the house, I listened to the first part of the guide’s speech, then ambled down toward the orchestra pit. The stage was set with terraced steps and a few fanciful adornments at the sides, vaguely Egyptian in style, mostly golden.
Magic Flute
, I guessed. Probably the previous night’s performance, unless they were already set up for tonight’s.

But no; Vi had mentioned they were doing final rehearsals during the day for
Cesar Chavez
, which was to open on Saturday. So they must not have changed the set yet. I doubted they’d rehearse on the set for a different production.

I reached the pool and noted that the water in it was still. On Friday night, it had been rippling just slightly; there must be a pump somewhere that circulated the water, and was presently turned off.

I strolled along the pool as if casually admiring it, and surreptitiously aimed my flashlight into the water, which was much shallower than I’d expected, only a few inches deep. I swept the beam along the bottom, looking for any anomalies. There were none. I walked the whole length of it and even leaned over it a little to make sure I’d seen the front edge. Nothing.

I turned back, intending to double-check, but the tour guide had brought the others down to join me, so I smiled and asked him a question about the pool. He responded with the history that I already knew. The other tourists showed interest. I continued to peer into the water, though I didn’t dare use the flashlight.

Frustrated, I followed the group to the south patio. As we were leaving the house, a guy in jeans and a tee-shirt—a crew member, I surmised—came onto the stage and prepared to move one of the set pieces.

The guide led us through the stage door into the backstage area. The walls and floor were painted black, making the space seem even smaller than it was. The guide pointed out the stage manager’s console, which included a video monitor and lots of technical-looking control panels. I half-listened to his talk while I continued to look around.

More crew members had joined the first guy. They started disassembling the terraced platforms and stacking the pieces at the back of the stage. Getting ready to load it all onto the B-lift and take it down to storage.

The tour moved into a short hallway. A rack of costumes stood there, making it even more crowded and tempting us to touch the beautiful fabrics, which the guide quickly warned us not to do. He talked about the dressing rooms but didn’t allow us to go in. He stood with his back to the women’s chorus dressing room, which made us face away from the principal men’s dressing room. Behind him, just inside the doorway, a floor-to-ceiling set of cubby shelves filled with shoes drew the eye. Each space was labeled with a character’s name.

I was sure the guide’s choice of where to stand was deliberate; he wanted to minimize our curiosity about the fact that we were right beside the scene of Friday’s murder. The lights in the principals’ dressing rooms were off, whereas the women’s chorus room was brilliantly lit.

I stood at the back of the group, placing myself where I could look into the principal men’s dressing room. I didn’t expect to see much of anything, and I didn’t, but I felt I had to acknowledge the place where Victor Solano’s life had ended so violently.

The dark walls backstage only accentuated the air of drama and mystery. By contrast, the inside walls of the dressing rooms were light, and the mirrors and lights made a striking scene against the gloomy backstage area.

Theatres all have their histories, colorful and often (if the theatre had been around long at all) including ghost stories. If SFO didn’t already have ghost stories, it soon would. I’d have to ask Mr. Ingraham. He’d probably know.

The guide ushered us back toward the stage, then down some steps. At a half-landing we entered the props running room and stood just inside the entrance while the guide talked about the creation and storage of the hundreds of props needed for each season. Beside me was a wall rack holding dozens of parasols. I could imagine Tony’s despair upon realizing he had to search everything in the place.

We went back out to the stairs and on down them. The guide gathered us at the foot of the steps, waiting until we were all down.

“We’ll look at costume crafts next, and then the back deck,” he said.

A gentle mechanical whir began, drawing our attention toward the stage at our right. The guide glanced toward it.

“That’s the B-lift. They’re bringing it up so they can load set pieces on it and take them down to storage. We’ll look at—”

One of the tall women screamed. The floor of the B-lift had passed us, rising upward on a single, giant piston and revealing the space below.

A body lay in it—what was left of one. All I saw was a muddied glimpse of purple and black.

8

T
his way, everyone!” The guide began shooing us past. “Straight back, onto the deck. Quickly, please!”

A wave of a dreadful odor reached me and I cringed, a primal reaction to a smell that said “get away, not safe.” An older woman in the group collapsed. Before I could go to her, two others were there. I took a step backward, my hands shaking as I took out my phone and called Tony.

Purple and black. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“This way, everyone! All the way back, please!”

“Aragón.”

“Tony,” I said, profoundly grateful to hear his voice.

“Yeah? Ellen?”

“You n-need to come to the opera.”

“I’m kind of tied—”

“Right now. There’s another … ah…” I was having trouble breathing. People were shouting but I didn’t understand them.

“Ellen?”

“Hurry, Tony, please.” I gulped. “Another body.”

“Shit,” he said, then the phone went dead.

I still had my eyes shut. I couldn’t make myself open them. They started leaking tears.

“Ma’am? You need to come this way, please.”

The tour guide. Shaking, I blinked a few times until I could see past the tears.

“This way,” he said again, reaching hesitantly toward my arm.

I moved forward, looking straight ahead, feeling numb horror.

Purple and black. That’s what Vi had been wearing when I last saw her. She wore those colors a lot.

Any self-respecting kid would have rebelled and chosen orange for a favorite color. I can’t help it—I’ve always loved violet.

Oh, God. Vi.

I stumbled and the tour guide caught my arm.

“I’m all right,” I said. “I’m all right.”

I kept repeating it silently, a throwback to when my father had died. A mantra against despair.

I was not, in fact, all right, but the words kept me going until I was outside, on the broad deck behind the stage, joining the rest of the tour who were huddled together. The woman who had fainted was being supported by a man about her age; husband, probably. The others looked shocked or numb, stared toward the B-lift, whispered speculations.

I shivered and rubbed my arms, despite the warm weather. My teeth were chattering. Shock.

Raised voices came from the backstage area. There were wide sets of steps on either side of the B-lift. I’d forgotten that, though I’d seen them before and remembered them being used for grand entrances of the chorus in past operas. Now the stage crew were scrambling up and down them, calling to each other, shouting questions and instructions. The B-lift had stopped partway up between the steps. It looked odd there.

I turned away, looking westward. The Jemez Mountains lay serene and blue in the distance. Closer by, the dusty hillside was dotted with piñon trees and sage. Two big water towers rose up from the hill, a little to the left. Storage of the runoff from the opera’s many rooftops, I remembered from a previous tour. They saved it all for watering the landscaping.

“This way, please, everyone,” said the tour guide. “We’ll go inside now to where you can sit down. The police will want to talk to you.”

He led us down some stairs and south to a building I didn’t remember. It was large, and a sign announced it as the Stieren Orchestra Hall. This was the back of the building, and the doorway we went through led to a lower level; like the theatre, most of the building was above us. We passed through a hallway to a conference room, where the guide invited us to sit down. He was on the phone, figuring out what to do with us, no doubt.

Phone. What had I done with mine? I didn’t remember.

I looked in my purse and found it in its usual pocket. I must have put it away without realizing.

I sank into a chair, grateful to be off my feet.

We were in that room forever, it seemed. People would talk for a while, speculating on what had happened—was it an accident? Or suicide?—and then lapse into silence.

If it was Vi, and I was terribly afraid that it was, then it couldn’t have been suicide. She’d been upset when I saw her, but not enough to take her life. She had a brilliant career ahead of her.

Oh, Vi.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the voices of the others, trying to keep myself together. I just had to make it until Tony got there. Then everything would be all right.

My phone rang, startling me. I took it out, expecting to see Tony’s number, but it was Rhonda Benning.

Oh, God.

I wanted to chicken out and let it go to voicemail, but I couldn’t do that to poor Rhonda. I stood and went out into the hall to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Ellen, it’s Rhonda. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d seen Vi. She didn’t come home last night.”

I bit my lip. “The last time I saw her was night before last. She dropped by after her performance.”

“But not last night?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t tell her about the body. What if it wasn’t Vi? Much as I wanted to ease Rhonda’s mind, if I told her anything it might just make everything worse.

“Could … she have stayed with a friend?” I asked.

“I’ve checked with everyone I could think of,” Rhonda said. “No one’s seen her, and she’s not answering her cell.”

“Oh. I really wish I could help….”

“Thanks, Ellen. If you hear from her—”

I swallowed. “I’ll tell her to call you.”

“Thanks.”

We said goodbye, and I returned to the conference room. My stomach was in knots.

The tour guide came in—I hadn’t realized he was gone—and passed around a clipboard, asking us all to write down our names, addresses, and phone numbers. I complied, then sat staring out the doorway.

Vi wouldn’t kill herself, and I doubted she’d be careless around the stage. So someone had pushed her, or knocked her unconscious and dropped her into the elevator pit, and then lowered the platform.

I squeezed my eyes shut. If you fell in the pit, could you get out? There must be a way—too much of a risk without some way to escape. My mind told me that I had glimpsed a ladder mounted to one wall, black on black.

Which meant that Vi hadn’t been able to climb out. She’d been unconscious. Or … already dead?

I shuddered.

Maybe it wasn’t Vi. Stop thinking it’s Vi, I told myself.