garden set in front of the curtain. Goro would normally come out a bit later, but Maestro Stokowski has taken some creative liberties with the story, so …”
“Got it,” I said. “You going to be okay?”
“Yes.” Vera nodded.
And she was off. Members of the chorus, all dressed as Japanese, quietly found places on the set. Some of them looked at Gunther, Shelly, and me as if we were extras lost from a road show of
Through the curtain, the overture began. It sounded loud, strong, sure to me. Gunther pulled me down to him to whisper, “He’s improvising. Stokowski is improvising with Puccini.”
“Sounds okay to me,” I said.
“But,” posed Gunther, adjusting his kimono, “is the proper role of the musician to render the composer’s work faithfully or to use it as a point of departure for his own creativity?”
“Beats hell out of me, Gunther,” I admitted, trying to work out how I was going to unmask a killer and get the police off my back.
“It is a conundrum,” said Gunther.
I moved to the curtain and parted it just enough to see Stokowski, eyes closed in concentration, whipping his hands frantically. Behind him I could see an audience of about a hundred for the dress rehearsal. I couldn’t see Jeremy and Farkas in the rear, but I was counting on them being there.
The overture stopped and Vera began to sing.
She sounded light, happy, a Japanese song bird singing in Italian. Lundeen came in. He didn’t sound bad either, but I had the feeling he wasn’t hitting the upper end of the role.
When the curtain came up for the wedding party, the chorus sang, Gunther and I mouthed, and Raymond sat dead. No problems. Lundeen strolled the stage, smiling in a tight blue, ersatz navy uniform with brass buttons. He was sweating. As he passed without recognizing me, I whispered, “Ever play Samson?”
The smile fell from his face and he stopped walking and looked at me.
“How about Johnson in
There was a long pause. The orchestra stopped playing. Vera resang her line. Someone coughed.
“Giancarlo,” Stokowski’s voice came. “This is a dress rehearsal. You have just been given a cue. There is an audience waiting, an orchestra waiting.”
“I …” Lundeen began, turning to the audience.
“Snick,” I shouted. “You ever see this man before?”
From the back of the auditorium came the wavering voice of Snick Farkas. “
“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said above the sudden hum and rising of the crowd.
“Anyplace else?” I asked, stepping to the front of the stage.
“Yesterday,” came Farkas’ voice. “Going into that building you hit me in front of with the car. Just before you went in.”
“Mr. Peters,” Stokowski repeated. “Am I to understand that you are about to eliminate my second Pinkerton of the day?”
“Looks that way, Maestro,” I said.
“And we are to understand,” Stokowski said, playing his role perfectly, “that Mr. Lundeen killed Miss Bartholomew?”
“Right,” I said.
I could feel rather than see Preston and Sunset coming out of the wings in my direction.
“He also killed Raymond Griffith,” I said, pointing to the corpse on the throne.
That stopped Preston and Sunset, who looked at the dead man.
“And Mr. Peters,” Stokowski said, arms folded, lifting his chin at me, playing the perfect straight man. “Why did Giancarlo do these things?”
“My guess is he wants this opera to fail,” I said. “He pulled this scam on a smaller level back in Texas seven years ago. Combination of insurance scam and overselling to backers. I think someone objected to it then and got killed.”
“Madness,” cried Lundeen, arms out, walking around the stage, asking the audience for sympathy.
“Nope,” I said, pulling the bald pate off my head and scratching where it itched. “You were in it with Lorna and Griffith. I think she changed her mind when she decided maybe you weren’t just faking attacks on her. Gunther and I went over all the information on where people said they were when Wyler the plasterer died, when I was attacked, and when Lorna was attacked twice. You, Lorna, and Griffith always covered for each other. But you overcovered. All three of you said you saw a guy with a cape climbing up the scaffolding before the carpenter died. But you were seen inside the auditorium just before the death of the plasterer. I’ll bet the poor guy just fell and you made up the Phantom story.”
“But Lorna …” Lundeen pleaded.
Preston and Sunset had stopped now. Their attention was turned to Lundeen.
“Funny thing,” I said. “When I found her body in her apartment, she was covered with bruises, but not on her neck. Her neck was untouched, no marks. Only hours before, the neck was bruised and red from the Phantom’s attack on her.
“But there was no attack on Lorna Bartholomew. She rubbed makeup on her neck and came running up the stairs screaming. After the attack she wore a scarf around her neck.”
“This is ridiculous,” Lundeen said to Stokowski and the audience.
“It has the ring of dramatic authenticity,” said Stokowski, looking to his orchestra for confirmation. They nodded in agreement. The audience was discussing the situation in small groups.
“Should be easy enough to check your books, contractors, donors, to see if you stand to profit by the opera failing,” I said to Lundeen. “Gunther can do it with Gwen and …”
Lundeen looked at me at stage center, Preston and Sunset stage right, Shelly and Gunther stage left, and the orchestra and audience out in front and made his decision. He pushed Vera out of the way and leaped into the orchestra pit, crashing noisily through a kettle drum. Musicians scurried out of the way as he climbed out of the broken drum and moved toward the audience and the aisle.
Stokowski stood immobile, arms folded, as Lundeen puffed past him.
Sunset and two other cops ran to the end of the stage, heading for the stairs.
Instruments were twanging, people were screaming, feet were running, but I could clearly hear Stokowski’s voice as Lundeen turned and tried to bull past him, back to the stage. “You would take the money of musicians and war orphans!”
Lundeen ignored the Maestro, which proved to be a mistake. Stokowski threw a straight right at the company manager, who was thrusting out an arm to push him aside. The punch caught Lundeen’s cheek. Lundeen turned on Stokowski, who hit the massive baritone in the nose with a right cross, following with an uppercut to the neck. Lundeen tried to level a punch at Stokowski, but the conductor beat him to it, throwing a solid left to the other’s stomach. The punch split the seam of the hastily stitched uniform, and a rip up the side showed a hairy white leg.
“I’ve been in brawls with photographers, critics, the police, and musicians around the world. No baritone is a match for me,” Stokowski said triumphantly, glancing back to be sure the audience had caught his performance. They had and were applauding.
I had my arms around Vera, watching. Sunset reached the platform and got a hand on Lundeen’s pants’ leg. Fighting off Stokowski with one hand, Lundeen kicked with his foot. The already torn pants came off in Sunset’s hand.
Letting out the bellow of a wild ape, Lundeen, in what was left of his Pinkerton uniform, leaped back into the orchestra pit and through the door under the stage through which most of the musicians had beat a retreat.
The cops went after him. Preston was the last one through the door. He paused a beat to look up at me and shake his head.
It should have been the end, but it wasn’t. The end is never really the end. The end is just where you decide
