Poor Butterfly (10 page)

“Toby,” he said, seeing me. “I’m glad you came. I’m trying to explain something to these people here. You, open your mouth.”

He was talking to Sloane, who seemed completely confused by this cigar-chomping man who kept pushing his thick glasses back on his nose. Sloane started to protest.

“Will you just do it?” Shelly said irritably. “I’m trying to make a point here. God, Toby, these people … Okay. Okay. That’s fine. Look at those dentures. They look real to you?”

A few of the picketers looked at Sloane’s teeth. One woman shook her head somberly.

“See. See there,” said Shelly triumphantly. “What’d I tell you? You old people need false teeth that look like teeth, not like false teeth. And you need false teeth that don’t smell. Any of you have dogs? You know what a dog’s breath smells like?”

“Shelly,” I said. “We’ve got to go.”

“A second, Toby,” he whispered, touching my arm and adjusting his cigar and glasses. “I’m doing missionary work here. You can close your mouth now,” he said to Sloane, who closed his mouth. “I’m going to give each of you a card.” Shelly pulled a stack of crunched business cards from his jacket pocket and began to hand them out. “You write to me and order, first, my Minck Mouth-So-Sweet Powders. You mix them with water, cola, Green River, Squirt, whatever, then gargle with it and drink it. Made especially for old guys with dentures. And if you want a set of dentures that look like real teeth instead of discolored fence posts, make an appointment with my secretary and plan a trip to Los Angeles.”

“God doesn’t care about such things,” said a bent-over old man holding a picket sign that read:
JAPANESE SOLDIERS KILL BABIES. IS THAT SOMETHING TO SING ABOUT
?

“God likes bad breath?” Shelly asked, removing his cigar and pointing it at the man. “God likes silly-looking false teeth? God sent you here to carry those signs and act like jerks, and he sent me to see to it that you look like human beings and don’t smell like cocker spaniels. Think about it.”

Shelly moved to the man who had complained and pulled the calling card out of his hand.

“Let’s go, Shel,” I said, taking his arm.

“All right, all right.”

“Mouth-So-Sweet Powder?” I asked.

“Buy some bottles, slap a few labels on, mix some stuff up,” he said.

“Make an appointment with your secretary?” I went on.

“I use a high voice when I answer the phone,” he explained.

We moved up the steps toward Jeremy and Gunther.

“You’re trying to sell those people the same stuff you’re working on for dog breath, aren’t you?” I whispered.

“Works just as well on people,” he said, putting on a false smile and waving back at the picketers. “I’ll be careful with it. I haven’t really got it fully developed yet.”

The show was over. The workers were heading into the building or setting up on the steps. We entered the lobby. It looked further along today, but that might have been either my imagination or better lighting.

We ducked under some scaffolding and headed for the marble stairway.

“Nice place,” Shelly said. “What time’s the next decapitation?”

“Samuel Varney Keel,” said Gunther. “This is distinctly his work. He could never decide in which century he wished to place his faith. His buildings have the rococo design of the sixteenth century, poorly blended with museum memories of Greek and Roman statuary. There, up there, even an bit of ersatz ancient Egypt. And his edifices are pocked with hidden chambers and passages drawn from English Gothic tales.”

“Interesting,” I said as we hit the top of the stairs where we had found Lorna Bartholomew crying the day before.

“Keel died quite mad,” said Gunther. “I translated a brochure on San Francisco architects. This is how I know such things.”

“Looks okay to me,” Shelly said. “Little dark. Some nice paintings of girls in the woods, or movie posters, could brighten it up.”

“What do you think, Jeremy?” I asked as we paused in front of Lundeen’s office.

“There is an aura of death,” said Jeremy. “I felt it outside. I feel it more strongly in here. It reminds me of the House of Usher.”

“That would probably have pleased Mr. Keel,” said Gunther.

Shelly looked as if he were going to say something but decided to keep it to himself. I knocked and Lundeen sang for us to enter.

Long sheets of paper covered the floor, desk, and table. Lundeen stood over the table looking down, a handkerchief in his hand to dry his palms. Gwen was asleep in an overstuffed chair in a corner, a sheet of paper on her lap, her mouth open.

Lundeen looked at the four of us. His jaw dropped. He touched his stubbly face, closed his mouth, and pulled himself together.

“My colleagues,” I said, and introduced everyone. Lundeen was quite an actor. He smiled politely and shook each hand.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Peters, Gwen and I have spent the night going over the statements you asked us to obtain. Gwen will put it all together after she has some rest. But as far as we can tell, everyone from the custodial staff to me and the Maestro were seen either when the plasterer was being killed or when Lorna and you were attacked. It must have been someone from the outside.”

“I would like to examine these reports, if I may,” said Gunther.

“Yes, of course,” Lundeen conceded.

Shelly had wandered over to the sleeping Gwen. “Good teeth on this girl,” he said appreciatively, coming back to us. “Slight overbite.”

“What now?” asked Lundeen. “Vera, Marty Passacaglia, the Maestro, and the orchestra will be here in the next few minutes. What do we …?”

“My colleagues are experienced at this kind of thing,” I said, pretending to look at one of the sheets of paper.

Lundeen rubbed his eyes and looked at us with disbelief.

“Got some questions,” I said, looking up. “Last night I ran into the Reverend Souvaine, the guy behind the picketers. He said he’s going to drop a publicity bomb today, that he has proof Stokowski is a liar—that he isn’t Polish, that he can’t play the violin—that he has been fooling around with women for years.”

“All true,” said Lundeen with a sigh, standing up to straighten his shirt front. “The Maestro is a storyteller and a mass of contradictions. He values his privacy but enjoys adulation. He changes his biography. His accent is a fraud, a mixture of precise English and playful European pronunciations. He is an accomplished organist, a virtuoso. There is no reason for him to claim the violin. Yet he does so. His exploits with women are legendary in the business. Your Reverend …”

“… Souvaine,” I said.

“… will get a few lines in the paper, but there is nothing the community does not know about the Maestro,” Lundeen concluded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to change my shirt, shave, and try to look presentable. The Maestro doesn’t like slovenliness. You might want to get your people down to the lobby before he arrives.”

Lundeen moved toward a door in the right wall, opened it, and disappeared.

“I am able to confirm what Mr. Lundeen has said about Leopold Stokowski,” said Gunther. “The discrepancies have been evident for a long time.”

Gwen sat up suddenly and found herself looking at Shelly.

She stifled a scream, her eyes searching for help. She saw Gunther and then Jeremy. Her mouth opened and her eyes found me.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Bad dream,” she whispered hoarsely, trying to sit up.

Gunther moved to help her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Mr. Lundeen …?”

“Shaving,” I said.

“He told you what we found? Or failed to find?”

“Perhaps you would not mind summarizing your information for me,” said Gunther.

Gwen touched her hair and sat up.

“Okay, Gunther, you stay here and work on the statements,” I said. “If we have anything to add, we’ll bring it to you. You keep an eye on Gwen.”

“Of course,” he said.

Jeremy, Shelly, and I left the room.

We made it to the lobby just in time. Members of the orchestra were coming in, carrying instruments, talking, pointing out grotesque designs and rococo corners. Behind them, a light coat over his shoulders, came Stokowski, with Lorna and Miguelito at his side. Under his coat Stokowski wore a gray suit with a black shirt and white tie. He looked like a king going to a costume ball dressed like a movie gangster. He looked up at me as he entered.

“Ah, my detective,” he said. “What have you discovered?”

“Everyone has an alibi for everything,” I said.

“As is always true in detective fiction,” he said.

I introduced Shelly and Jeremy. Stokowski shook their hands.

“I am an admirer of your work,” Jeremy said.

Stokowski nodded, having heard it before, the polite response of someone who meets a celebrity.

“Exclusively of my work?” he asked with a wry smile.

“No,” said Jeremy. “Not exclusively. I enjoy the New York Philharmonic, though I find them a bit too formal under Bruno Walter, except when they are doing Beethoven. The London Philharmonic under Sir Thomas Beecham is suited for Debussy, although not for the more intense composers, and while Felix Weingartner and the London Symphony have a remarkable range, they have, in my opinion, no singular identity or strength. Admittedly, my familiarity with these orchestras is through recordings, the quality of which varies greatly. Your recordings, however, are consistently of the highest quality. In addition, I find your dedication to modern composers and your willingness to deal with the most difficult classics admirable. In my opinion, only your friend Artur Rodzinski, with the Cleveland Orchestra, approaches your virtuosity.”

Stokowski had stopped and was regarding the large bear-like bald man in front of him.

“You are a musician?” he asked.

“A poet,” Jeremy said.

“Used to wrestle,” said Shelly. “Pro. Broke Tiger Daniels’ arm in Pittsburgh in 1930.”

Stokowski looked at Jeremy and smiled. “I look forward to talking with you further.”

He pulled the coat around his shoulders and hurried into the building.

“Are you all right?” I asked Lorna. She wore a scarf around her neck. I had a flash image of her red neck from my dream.

“No,” she said, looking around at the workmen and up the stairway. “And Miguelito couldn’t sleep. He was traumatized.”

“Shelly, will you accompany Miss Bartholomew while she is in the building?” I said.

“Sure,” said Shelly, taking Lorna’s arm. Miguelito took a snap in his direction and Shelly let go.

We heard his voice as he led her away: “Little fellow has a nice smile there, but there’s just a slight underbite, and his teeth need cleaning.”

“Stay with Stokowski,” I told Jeremy.

Jeremy nodded and moved silently toward the auditorium.

Vera came in about two minutes later, but she wasn’t alone. A tall blond man was laughing at her side. She was smiling. The man wasn’t just tall. He was also muscular and handsome. Then Vera spotted me and the smile, disappeared.

The two of them moved toward me.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “Lorna’s much better.”

“I saw her,” I said. “Inside. Let’s try for those carrot sandwiches tonight.”

“Who is this?” asked the man with Vera.

“I’m sorry,” Vera said, clearly flustered. “This is Mr. Peters, the detective Maestro Stokowski has hired. Toby, this is Martin Passacaglia.”

I put out my hand. Passacaglia took it and gave it his best. He was about fifteen years younger than me and in good shape, but it was body-building shape, not scar tissue shape. I let him squeeze.

“Good to meet you, Peters,” he said. His voice sang—I liked that voice, reminded me of Robert Preston. “Let’s get inside, Vera. Stoki will be waiting,” he added.

“Go ahead, Martin,” she said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Nice dress,” I said, trying my best smile. The dress was nice—yellow, plenty of room on top to breathe, with just enough flesh showing in the V-cut of the neck.

“Peters,” said Passacaglia sweetly, trying to lead Vera away. “We have work to do, and so have you.”

I reached over and put my hand on the hand holding Vera’s arm.

“Go inside, Mr. Passacaglia,” I said with a smile. “I’ve played scenes like this more than you have, and they never come out with a song. They come out with bloody noses and cracked teeth.”

“You are coming dangerously close to insolence and the loss of this employment,” said Passacaglia.

“What are you two fighting about?” asked Vera.

“You,” I explained.

She blushed. I thought it was cute.

“I’m giving you a warning, Peters,” Passacaglia hissed through perfect white teeth.

“Mr. Peters,” came a voice behind us. I turned to face Lundeen. “You have been hired to protect, not attack, the company. If you inflict bodily harm to Mr. Passacaglia, you will have to collect your fee from the Phantom.”

Passacaglia took this moment to sneer and make his exit. Vera followed him, giving me a quick, small wave of her hand.

“The man can’t act,” said Lundeen with a sigh. “Best we could get, however. And he can sing. He is obnoxious, I grant you, but we do need him for this opera.”

“He didn’t seem to be afraid of the Phantom,” I said.

“Martin is far too stupid to be afraid,” said Lundeen, looking into the theater lobby hallway into which Vera and Martin had disappeared. “He has been killed in so many operas that he thinks he is immortal. A strange malady peculiar to tenors and fools.”

A pair of women in work clothes, carrying paint buckets, moved quickly past us. Some paint sloshed out of one of their cans and Lundeen jumped back.

“What happened to professional pride?” he asked, loud enough for the two women to hear. They kept walking. He turned to me. He had something to say. We stood looking at each other.

“Think I should take in Mt. Lassen while I’m in town?” I asked.

“I am not impressed by your colleagues, Mr. Peters,” he said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

“I thought we were Toby and John, drinking buddies.”

“Your colleagues are …”

“… cleverly disguised,” I said. “Gunther is trained in the use of Swiss weaponry and explosives. He’s taller than he looks. And Shelly is a hand-to-hand combat expert who lulls his opponents into complacency with his pretense of being a buffoon. Jeremy, I must admit, is along for the ride. Smart man, but can’t stand the sight of blood.”