Overture to Murder, page 5
“In the SFPD, ‘inspector’ is the normal title, Ma’am,” Cristina said.
“Please excuse me, inspector,” Felicia said, “I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t. It’s a normal mistake,” Taylor said. “Just so you know, due to the suspicious and possibly violent nature of the death, Cristina and I were called in from the main headquarters at the Southern District Police Station in Mission Bay rather than the station closer to the opera house.”
“Thank you for that information, inspector.”
Cristina looked around, frowning. “So, where’s Luisa?”
“Sorry I’m late.”
Luisa Botero, thirty-ish and petite with a Tigger-like bounce in her step, rushed over to the group, breathless. “Whew. Sorry I’m lagging behind. Things are more insane than usual at headquarters today.”
Felicia studied the youthful woman’s badge. “You look young to be a Chief Medical Examiner.”
“I know. Most people have the same reaction as you.” Luisa cocked her head in Taylor and Cristina’s direction. “Believe it or not, Ma’am, I’ve been slaving away with these two worker bees for years. We’re the most well-greased machine in the SFPD.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Felicia said.
Taylor glanced toward the entrance. “CSU is here,” he said. “May we see the body, Ms. Carpen?”
“Of course. Please follow me.”
Felicia texted James to let him know she was headed to Chauvet’s dressing room with the two inspectors, the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene Unit. Then, she led the group past the security guard and into the theatre.
* * *
When Felicia, Taylor, Cristina, and Luisa reached Chauvet’s dressing room, James was stationed at the door. Felicia introduced him to the others, and the group stepped into the grim site. Luisa began to inspect Chauvet’s body while Taylor and Cristina combed the room for clues. Taylor noticed the masses of bouquets filling every inch of table and counter space. He removed the attached cards, read them, bagged them, and relinquished them to a CSU tech.
“Looks like this fellow had a lot of admirers, Ms. Carpen.”
“He is—was—a world-renowned stage director, inspector,” Felicia said. “Though he did have his, shall we say, conflicts with company members.”
“Please give me an inventory of their names. I’ll interview them first.”
“It might be a long list,” James said. “Chauvet did not have many fans in the company. On top of being difficult to work with, unlike other directors he stipulated having his own private dressing room. That riled a lot of people.”
Taylor arched a blond brow. “Oh? Were you one of them?”
“I have few dealings with stage directors,” James said. “As House Head, my chief responsibility is to keep the entire house functioning at the highest level. It would be the singers he displaced and the dressers who were inconvenienced by it, who had issues with him.”
“Make sure we get a list of those too, please, Ms. Carpen,” Taylor said.
Cristina lifted a box of chocolates from Chauvet’s desk and took a close look at the label. “Taylor, check this out.”
Taylor instructed a tech to continue sorting through the bouquets and joined Cristina.
“I recognize the brand,” Cristina said. “Malmaison. Imported. French. Very swank.”
Luisa looked up from examining Chauvet. “I know them. They’re world famous. Handcrafted, made exclusively by a prestigious Parisian chocolatier.”
“I’m surrounded by chocoholics,” Taylor said.
Cristina held the box up to Felicia. “Look at the label underneath the brand. Aren’t those names of opera characters?”
“You’re right,” Felicia said. “Manon, Pagliacci, Figaro, Giovanni—”
“That last one is ‘noir,’” said James. “How appropriate.”
Cristina lifted the box cover. “The entire top layer of bonbons is gone. Talk about chocoholic.”
Luisa took the box cover and sniffed it. “Well, don’t be tempted to taste one,” she said. “I suspect they’ve been tampered with.”
Felicia gasped. “What?”
“How can you tell?” Taylor asked.
“There’s just a faint smell in the box. But…” Luisa pointed to Chauvet’s grim visage. “Given that, plus the facial edema, the unusual fingernail pigmentation, bulging eyes, and contracted pupils, I’d say this man may have been poisoned.”
Chapter Twelve
Wotan
Da verlor ich den leichten Muth,
zu wissen begehrt’ es den Gott
Then I lost the lightness of my heart,
to know, then, became my gods’ desire
Wagner, Die Walküre, Act Two
“I’ll send the box and its contents to the lab to confirm if and what kind of poison might have been used.” Luisa turned to Taylor and Cristina. “Meanwhile, it’s up to you guys to figure out who sent this lethal cache to the director. And why.”
“It won’t be easy,” Cristina said. “Those French chocolates are obtainable only by special order on the Internet. Not as traceable as similar stuff that’s available on Amazon or eBay.”
“Again,” Taylor said. “I’m amazed at your expertise.”
“My mother was French,” Cristina said. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Evidently.” Taylor used his phone to snap a photo of the operatic names on the box cover, bagged the box, and handed it to a tech. “One thing seems clear. Since the sweets are all named for opera characters, I expect the perp has knowledge of the subject.”
“Very astute,” Cristina said. “That whittles it down to everyone in this opera house and most of San Francisco.” She looked at Felicia. “Did he have a significant other?”
“None that I know of,” Felicia said. “Just a lot of hangers-on.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Luisa.” Taylor turned to Felicia. “Let’s start with the company members. Who’s here for tonight’s show?”
“Solo singers, orchestra, and stage crew,” Felicia said. “There’s no chorus in Rheingold, so we have fewer people than usual. That should make your job easier.”
Cristina grimaced. “Our job is never easy. But I’d settle for getting this wrapped up as quickly as possible.”
“You start with the stage crew,” Taylor said. “I’ll take the orchestra. We can interview the singers together.”
“They’re all waiting in the orchestra lounge,” James said. “I’ll show you the way.”
After James left with Taylor, Cristina scoured the room for anything that might have been overlooked. Underneath a blotter on the desk, she found a note written with a clear, careful hand.
Dear Monsieur, if you refuse to direct my company, I will sue you. There is a limit to where behavior becomes unacceptable. You have acted in a manner which contravenes with the Opera’s view regarding how we work together and how to express oneself among co-workers. If we cannot reach a mutual understanding concerning the gravity of the situation, I will choose to terminate our cooperation. Sincerely, Felicia Carpen, General Director, San Francisco Opera.
Next to it was another note, scribbled and less legible.
Dear Ms. Carpen, there are a few useless people on your management that we would do well to be rid of and you are at the top of the list!
“If this stuff doesn’t reek of murder, I don’t know what does,” Cristina thought as she slipped the notes into two small evidence bags.
* * *
James guided Taylor down a stairway and through the maze of hallways leading to the musicians’ lounge.
“If you don’t mind my asking, James, could you describe your official job in more detail?”
“As House Head, I spend most of my time inspecting the building from top to bottom. If any problem comes up, whether in the basement or on the top catwalk, I’m the one they call.”
“So, you know the place inside out?”
“And backwards. I’ve been here over thirty years.”
“What did you think of this Chauvet guy?”
“As I mentioned before, the list of his non-fans is extensive. From what I’ve observed over the years, Die liebe brennt.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s ironic opera lingo meaning, ‘No love lost.’ In any of Chauvet’s relationships, in or outside the company,” James said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the entire company thought he was a surly pain in the ass to work with, always nit-picking, complaining about everyone and everything.” He lowered his voice. “To his occasional lovers as well as the people he worked with. Or so I’m told.”
“You sound like you’re not surprised someone might want to hurt him.”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“And yet,” Taylor said, “His dressing room was filled with cards and flowers.”
“The mayor, other admirers, a few prospective lovers, and any number of opera people trying to suck up to him. Despite his nastiness, he had considerable power to wield here in his domain.”
“Assuming the M.E. is correct that the chocolates were poisoned,” Taylor went on, “has anyone else in the company reported feeling ill?”
“Not to me. But that doesn’t surprise me either. Chauvet wasn’t the sharing type. And fancy French chocolates? I expect he planned to eat the whole box himself.” James genuflected. “Thank goodness.”
“Which company members would know he liked fancy French chocolates?” Taylor asked.
“Every person in the house. Not to mention every opera fan in the city and beyond. Chauvet made it no secret. He knew how to ask for what he wanted.”
“Oh, great,” Taylor said. “So much for narrowing this down.”
James thought for a moment. “It might not be a bad idea if I took you and Cristina on a tour of the house. There might be some clues that would elude me, but jump out at you.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Taylor said.
* * *
Julia and Katie waited in the lounge with the other anxious orchestra members. All eyes were drawn to the entrance when James walked in with Taylor. A familiar sinking feeling came over Julia. Having teamed with Larry in every sense for six years, she could spot a plainclothes detective from any distance, with or without a badge. One look at Taylor told her he was in that category. She sensed her worst fears were about to be confirmed.
Katie peered at Taylor’s badge as he came closer. “Uh oh, this can’t be good, Jul.”
Julia watched as James and Taylor spoke to Nicola. When Nicola’s face paled, Julia’s anxiety intensified. Part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. But her natural curiosity got the better of her, and her keen musician’s ear caught most of the conversation.
Katie noticed Julia’s keen attention to the exchange. “What’s happening, Jul?”
“Sounds like Chauvet’s been a victim of foul play,” Julia said.
Katie gasped. “Oh no. Is he…?”
“What did I tell you, Katie? It’s happening again. That six-letter word that begins with ‘M.’”
“Oh my God.”
James turned to Taylor. “If you’re okay questioning the musicians here, I’ll go backstage and help your partner with the stage crew.”
Taylor nodded his thanks. After James departed, Nicola faced the musicians. “If I could have your attention. As some of you may have heard, our stage director, Mr. Chauvet, has…passed away.” Nicola gestured at Taylor. “Inspector Magnuson of the SFPD would appreciate your patience and cooperation while he asks each of you a few questions.”
Hearing groans among her colleagues, Julia turned and gestured to them to tone it down.
“This can’t be happening,” Katie said. “Didn’t we say ‘murder-free’ in our invocation before the show?”
This reminder of past deadly experiences brought back feelings of hopelessness Julia had experienced in similar circumstances: murders at the Met and Santa Fe Opera. It all felt too familiar, too distressing. “I guess it didn’t do the trick,” she said, sighing.
It’s happening again. We’ve been here before. Merde.
Chapter Thirteen
Brünnhilde
Nicht fass’ ich, was ich erfahre.
Wirr und wüst’ scheint mir dein Sinn.
I cannot comprehend what I am hearing.
Your speech appears muddled and chaotic
Wagner, Götterdämmerung, Act One
The musicians settled in with their cell phones and raided the refrigerator and vending machines.
Julia texted Larry. Where are you?
Hanging in the park across from the stage door.
How did you manage to get out of the theatre?
I wasn’t a detective with the NYPD for two decades for nothing.
Right. Have you heard about Chauvet?
Sure. News travels fast. Especially in this crazy place.
We’re in our lounge being interviewed. I’ll text you when I’m done.
With time looming ahead of her, Julia began to research the SFPD on her phone. She thought knowing about their history and background might help her deal with the inevitable discomfort of being interrogated.
“Listen to this, Katie. It’s really interesting.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me I’m going to have to endure a history lesson while we sit here?”
“Got anything better to do?”
Katie thought for a moment. “Nope.”
Julia scrolled down the SFPD webpage. “They go back to the Gold Rush days. The original Law and Order.” Happy to see Katie’s uninterested expression turn intrigued, Julia continued to read.
“Back in 1849, the force had one commander, one deputy, three sergeants, and thirty officers. Two years later, this French guy named Albert Bernard de Russailh—” Despite her extensive knowledge of the language, Julia stumbled over the name.
“Oh no, another Frenchie?”
“We can’t seem to get away from them these days. Anyway,” Julia continued, “He wrote that the police force consisted of ex-bandits who only cared about keeping their friends from being punished. They were worse than criminals and robbed people of their money. Even if someone paid them to keep their house protected, the cops wouldn’t hesitate to set it on fire. No such thing as law and order. More like lawlessness and chaos.”
Katie peered at the screen. “By the turn of the twentieth century, though, it says the SFPD had become the model for modern law enforcement.”
“Go figure. Let’s hope the detective over there is one of the latter,” Julia said. “I should tell him to talk to Carlton. He’s been here since the Creation and probably has his ear to the proverbial ground.”
“That won’t get you out of talking to the detective, Julia.”
“I know. But from what I’ve heard, no one knows more about San Francisco Opera than Carlton. I can’t wait to meet him and pick his brain.”
“About what? Don’t you dare get any ideas in your head about sticking your nose in this—” Katie saw the gleam in Julia’s eye and groaned. “Damn. You’re so predictable.”
That’s what you love about me.”
“Really? Think again.”
Julia watched as Nicola led Taylor to a secluded corner of the room, pulled two chairs together, and conversed in hushed voices. After a few minutes, Nicola motioned to Julia, who gave Katie a look of desperation. “Here we go again.”
“Of course, they’d start with you,” Katie said. “You’re the head honcho of the band.”
“To my detriment.” Julia pocketed her cell and stepped toward her executioner.
* * *
When James arrived backstage, the entire stage crew was were whispering among themselves. Cristina asked James where the two of them could speak privately. He led her to a quiet corner.
“How did you and the stagehands get along with Chauvet?”
“As House Head, I distance myself from personal conflicts between artists. That’s Felicia’s territory, though I intervene if and when necessary. But, I have noticed disagreements between Chauvet and the stage crew. His ego grated on their nerves. Like everyone else’s.”
“Have any of those clashes occurred recently?”
“Chauvet and Kevin, one of our best electricians, practically came to blows over the stage fog in one of the Rheingold scenes.”
“Which one is Kevin?”
James pointed out a tousled-looking stagehand and gestured to him. Kevin approached Cristina and sat down opposite her. James hovered close by, but out of earshot.
“I hear you’ve had disputes with the deceased, Kevin,” Cristina said.
Kevin shrugged. “Who didn’t?”
“What happened between you?”
“Differences of opinion, mostly about stage fog. But it was a long time ago.”
“Resentments can stick around,” Cristina said. “Indulge me.”
Kevin took a deep breath. “When the production was new, there were multiple difficulties back here. First of all, the steam wasn’t functioning. They had to call in engineers. Then, some of the lights in the pit went out. Then there was too much smoke onstage, no one could see anything. People could trip and fall. It was a dangerous situation. We kept telling them to cut down on the fog, but they wouldn’t listen. The audience doesn’t know anything of what goes on back here.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Cristina. “Can you give more details?”
Kevin’s brow furrowed. “Well, nowadays, the only stage fog permitted by AGMA—that’s the American Guild of Musical Artists, in case you didn’t know—is dry ice. You can’t choke from it, but you can pass out for lack of oxygen if you’re enveloped in it for too long. It’s happened to singers in the past. Back then, they used real fog. Chauvet wanted it thicker than it needed to be. That was tough for everyone but him. With all the infidelity, betrayal, lying, and cheating in this opera, aside from the singing, someone’s going to want to kill someone. Onstage, anyway. Killing is common in opera. I mean the stage variety, of course. Seems every time the golden ring changes hands in these Ring operas, someone ends up dead.”
“Please excuse me, inspector,” Felicia said, “I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t. It’s a normal mistake,” Taylor said. “Just so you know, due to the suspicious and possibly violent nature of the death, Cristina and I were called in from the main headquarters at the Southern District Police Station in Mission Bay rather than the station closer to the opera house.”
“Thank you for that information, inspector.”
Cristina looked around, frowning. “So, where’s Luisa?”
“Sorry I’m late.”
Luisa Botero, thirty-ish and petite with a Tigger-like bounce in her step, rushed over to the group, breathless. “Whew. Sorry I’m lagging behind. Things are more insane than usual at headquarters today.”
Felicia studied the youthful woman’s badge. “You look young to be a Chief Medical Examiner.”
“I know. Most people have the same reaction as you.” Luisa cocked her head in Taylor and Cristina’s direction. “Believe it or not, Ma’am, I’ve been slaving away with these two worker bees for years. We’re the most well-greased machine in the SFPD.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Felicia said.
Taylor glanced toward the entrance. “CSU is here,” he said. “May we see the body, Ms. Carpen?”
“Of course. Please follow me.”
Felicia texted James to let him know she was headed to Chauvet’s dressing room with the two inspectors, the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene Unit. Then, she led the group past the security guard and into the theatre.
* * *
When Felicia, Taylor, Cristina, and Luisa reached Chauvet’s dressing room, James was stationed at the door. Felicia introduced him to the others, and the group stepped into the grim site. Luisa began to inspect Chauvet’s body while Taylor and Cristina combed the room for clues. Taylor noticed the masses of bouquets filling every inch of table and counter space. He removed the attached cards, read them, bagged them, and relinquished them to a CSU tech.
“Looks like this fellow had a lot of admirers, Ms. Carpen.”
“He is—was—a world-renowned stage director, inspector,” Felicia said. “Though he did have his, shall we say, conflicts with company members.”
“Please give me an inventory of their names. I’ll interview them first.”
“It might be a long list,” James said. “Chauvet did not have many fans in the company. On top of being difficult to work with, unlike other directors he stipulated having his own private dressing room. That riled a lot of people.”
Taylor arched a blond brow. “Oh? Were you one of them?”
“I have few dealings with stage directors,” James said. “As House Head, my chief responsibility is to keep the entire house functioning at the highest level. It would be the singers he displaced and the dressers who were inconvenienced by it, who had issues with him.”
“Make sure we get a list of those too, please, Ms. Carpen,” Taylor said.
Cristina lifted a box of chocolates from Chauvet’s desk and took a close look at the label. “Taylor, check this out.”
Taylor instructed a tech to continue sorting through the bouquets and joined Cristina.
“I recognize the brand,” Cristina said. “Malmaison. Imported. French. Very swank.”
Luisa looked up from examining Chauvet. “I know them. They’re world famous. Handcrafted, made exclusively by a prestigious Parisian chocolatier.”
“I’m surrounded by chocoholics,” Taylor said.
Cristina held the box up to Felicia. “Look at the label underneath the brand. Aren’t those names of opera characters?”
“You’re right,” Felicia said. “Manon, Pagliacci, Figaro, Giovanni—”
“That last one is ‘noir,’” said James. “How appropriate.”
Cristina lifted the box cover. “The entire top layer of bonbons is gone. Talk about chocoholic.”
Luisa took the box cover and sniffed it. “Well, don’t be tempted to taste one,” she said. “I suspect they’ve been tampered with.”
Felicia gasped. “What?”
“How can you tell?” Taylor asked.
“There’s just a faint smell in the box. But…” Luisa pointed to Chauvet’s grim visage. “Given that, plus the facial edema, the unusual fingernail pigmentation, bulging eyes, and contracted pupils, I’d say this man may have been poisoned.”
Chapter Twelve
Wotan
Da verlor ich den leichten Muth,
zu wissen begehrt’ es den Gott
Then I lost the lightness of my heart,
to know, then, became my gods’ desire
Wagner, Die Walküre, Act Two
“I’ll send the box and its contents to the lab to confirm if and what kind of poison might have been used.” Luisa turned to Taylor and Cristina. “Meanwhile, it’s up to you guys to figure out who sent this lethal cache to the director. And why.”
“It won’t be easy,” Cristina said. “Those French chocolates are obtainable only by special order on the Internet. Not as traceable as similar stuff that’s available on Amazon or eBay.”
“Again,” Taylor said. “I’m amazed at your expertise.”
“My mother was French,” Cristina said. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Evidently.” Taylor used his phone to snap a photo of the operatic names on the box cover, bagged the box, and handed it to a tech. “One thing seems clear. Since the sweets are all named for opera characters, I expect the perp has knowledge of the subject.”
“Very astute,” Cristina said. “That whittles it down to everyone in this opera house and most of San Francisco.” She looked at Felicia. “Did he have a significant other?”
“None that I know of,” Felicia said. “Just a lot of hangers-on.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Luisa.” Taylor turned to Felicia. “Let’s start with the company members. Who’s here for tonight’s show?”
“Solo singers, orchestra, and stage crew,” Felicia said. “There’s no chorus in Rheingold, so we have fewer people than usual. That should make your job easier.”
Cristina grimaced. “Our job is never easy. But I’d settle for getting this wrapped up as quickly as possible.”
“You start with the stage crew,” Taylor said. “I’ll take the orchestra. We can interview the singers together.”
“They’re all waiting in the orchestra lounge,” James said. “I’ll show you the way.”
After James left with Taylor, Cristina scoured the room for anything that might have been overlooked. Underneath a blotter on the desk, she found a note written with a clear, careful hand.
Dear Monsieur, if you refuse to direct my company, I will sue you. There is a limit to where behavior becomes unacceptable. You have acted in a manner which contravenes with the Opera’s view regarding how we work together and how to express oneself among co-workers. If we cannot reach a mutual understanding concerning the gravity of the situation, I will choose to terminate our cooperation. Sincerely, Felicia Carpen, General Director, San Francisco Opera.
Next to it was another note, scribbled and less legible.
Dear Ms. Carpen, there are a few useless people on your management that we would do well to be rid of and you are at the top of the list!
“If this stuff doesn’t reek of murder, I don’t know what does,” Cristina thought as she slipped the notes into two small evidence bags.
* * *
James guided Taylor down a stairway and through the maze of hallways leading to the musicians’ lounge.
“If you don’t mind my asking, James, could you describe your official job in more detail?”
“As House Head, I spend most of my time inspecting the building from top to bottom. If any problem comes up, whether in the basement or on the top catwalk, I’m the one they call.”
“So, you know the place inside out?”
“And backwards. I’ve been here over thirty years.”
“What did you think of this Chauvet guy?”
“As I mentioned before, the list of his non-fans is extensive. From what I’ve observed over the years, Die liebe brennt.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s ironic opera lingo meaning, ‘No love lost.’ In any of Chauvet’s relationships, in or outside the company,” James said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the entire company thought he was a surly pain in the ass to work with, always nit-picking, complaining about everyone and everything.” He lowered his voice. “To his occasional lovers as well as the people he worked with. Or so I’m told.”
“You sound like you’re not surprised someone might want to hurt him.”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“And yet,” Taylor said, “His dressing room was filled with cards and flowers.”
“The mayor, other admirers, a few prospective lovers, and any number of opera people trying to suck up to him. Despite his nastiness, he had considerable power to wield here in his domain.”
“Assuming the M.E. is correct that the chocolates were poisoned,” Taylor went on, “has anyone else in the company reported feeling ill?”
“Not to me. But that doesn’t surprise me either. Chauvet wasn’t the sharing type. And fancy French chocolates? I expect he planned to eat the whole box himself.” James genuflected. “Thank goodness.”
“Which company members would know he liked fancy French chocolates?” Taylor asked.
“Every person in the house. Not to mention every opera fan in the city and beyond. Chauvet made it no secret. He knew how to ask for what he wanted.”
“Oh, great,” Taylor said. “So much for narrowing this down.”
James thought for a moment. “It might not be a bad idea if I took you and Cristina on a tour of the house. There might be some clues that would elude me, but jump out at you.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Taylor said.
* * *
Julia and Katie waited in the lounge with the other anxious orchestra members. All eyes were drawn to the entrance when James walked in with Taylor. A familiar sinking feeling came over Julia. Having teamed with Larry in every sense for six years, she could spot a plainclothes detective from any distance, with or without a badge. One look at Taylor told her he was in that category. She sensed her worst fears were about to be confirmed.
Katie peered at Taylor’s badge as he came closer. “Uh oh, this can’t be good, Jul.”
Julia watched as James and Taylor spoke to Nicola. When Nicola’s face paled, Julia’s anxiety intensified. Part of her wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. But her natural curiosity got the better of her, and her keen musician’s ear caught most of the conversation.
Katie noticed Julia’s keen attention to the exchange. “What’s happening, Jul?”
“Sounds like Chauvet’s been a victim of foul play,” Julia said.
Katie gasped. “Oh no. Is he…?”
“What did I tell you, Katie? It’s happening again. That six-letter word that begins with ‘M.’”
“Oh my God.”
James turned to Taylor. “If you’re okay questioning the musicians here, I’ll go backstage and help your partner with the stage crew.”
Taylor nodded his thanks. After James departed, Nicola faced the musicians. “If I could have your attention. As some of you may have heard, our stage director, Mr. Chauvet, has…passed away.” Nicola gestured at Taylor. “Inspector Magnuson of the SFPD would appreciate your patience and cooperation while he asks each of you a few questions.”
Hearing groans among her colleagues, Julia turned and gestured to them to tone it down.
“This can’t be happening,” Katie said. “Didn’t we say ‘murder-free’ in our invocation before the show?”
This reminder of past deadly experiences brought back feelings of hopelessness Julia had experienced in similar circumstances: murders at the Met and Santa Fe Opera. It all felt too familiar, too distressing. “I guess it didn’t do the trick,” she said, sighing.
It’s happening again. We’ve been here before. Merde.
Chapter Thirteen
Brünnhilde
Nicht fass’ ich, was ich erfahre.
Wirr und wüst’ scheint mir dein Sinn.
I cannot comprehend what I am hearing.
Your speech appears muddled and chaotic
Wagner, Götterdämmerung, Act One
The musicians settled in with their cell phones and raided the refrigerator and vending machines.
Julia texted Larry. Where are you?
Hanging in the park across from the stage door.
How did you manage to get out of the theatre?
I wasn’t a detective with the NYPD for two decades for nothing.
Right. Have you heard about Chauvet?
Sure. News travels fast. Especially in this crazy place.
We’re in our lounge being interviewed. I’ll text you when I’m done.
With time looming ahead of her, Julia began to research the SFPD on her phone. She thought knowing about their history and background might help her deal with the inevitable discomfort of being interrogated.
“Listen to this, Katie. It’s really interesting.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me I’m going to have to endure a history lesson while we sit here?”
“Got anything better to do?”
Katie thought for a moment. “Nope.”
Julia scrolled down the SFPD webpage. “They go back to the Gold Rush days. The original Law and Order.” Happy to see Katie’s uninterested expression turn intrigued, Julia continued to read.
“Back in 1849, the force had one commander, one deputy, three sergeants, and thirty officers. Two years later, this French guy named Albert Bernard de Russailh—” Despite her extensive knowledge of the language, Julia stumbled over the name.
“Oh no, another Frenchie?”
“We can’t seem to get away from them these days. Anyway,” Julia continued, “He wrote that the police force consisted of ex-bandits who only cared about keeping their friends from being punished. They were worse than criminals and robbed people of their money. Even if someone paid them to keep their house protected, the cops wouldn’t hesitate to set it on fire. No such thing as law and order. More like lawlessness and chaos.”
Katie peered at the screen. “By the turn of the twentieth century, though, it says the SFPD had become the model for modern law enforcement.”
“Go figure. Let’s hope the detective over there is one of the latter,” Julia said. “I should tell him to talk to Carlton. He’s been here since the Creation and probably has his ear to the proverbial ground.”
“That won’t get you out of talking to the detective, Julia.”
“I know. But from what I’ve heard, no one knows more about San Francisco Opera than Carlton. I can’t wait to meet him and pick his brain.”
“About what? Don’t you dare get any ideas in your head about sticking your nose in this—” Katie saw the gleam in Julia’s eye and groaned. “Damn. You’re so predictable.”
That’s what you love about me.”
“Really? Think again.”
Julia watched as Nicola led Taylor to a secluded corner of the room, pulled two chairs together, and conversed in hushed voices. After a few minutes, Nicola motioned to Julia, who gave Katie a look of desperation. “Here we go again.”
“Of course, they’d start with you,” Katie said. “You’re the head honcho of the band.”
“To my detriment.” Julia pocketed her cell and stepped toward her executioner.
* * *
When James arrived backstage, the entire stage crew was were whispering among themselves. Cristina asked James where the two of them could speak privately. He led her to a quiet corner.
“How did you and the stagehands get along with Chauvet?”
“As House Head, I distance myself from personal conflicts between artists. That’s Felicia’s territory, though I intervene if and when necessary. But, I have noticed disagreements between Chauvet and the stage crew. His ego grated on their nerves. Like everyone else’s.”
“Have any of those clashes occurred recently?”
“Chauvet and Kevin, one of our best electricians, practically came to blows over the stage fog in one of the Rheingold scenes.”
“Which one is Kevin?”
James pointed out a tousled-looking stagehand and gestured to him. Kevin approached Cristina and sat down opposite her. James hovered close by, but out of earshot.
“I hear you’ve had disputes with the deceased, Kevin,” Cristina said.
Kevin shrugged. “Who didn’t?”
“What happened between you?”
“Differences of opinion, mostly about stage fog. But it was a long time ago.”
“Resentments can stick around,” Cristina said. “Indulge me.”
Kevin took a deep breath. “When the production was new, there were multiple difficulties back here. First of all, the steam wasn’t functioning. They had to call in engineers. Then, some of the lights in the pit went out. Then there was too much smoke onstage, no one could see anything. People could trip and fall. It was a dangerous situation. We kept telling them to cut down on the fog, but they wouldn’t listen. The audience doesn’t know anything of what goes on back here.”
“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Cristina. “Can you give more details?”
Kevin’s brow furrowed. “Well, nowadays, the only stage fog permitted by AGMA—that’s the American Guild of Musical Artists, in case you didn’t know—is dry ice. You can’t choke from it, but you can pass out for lack of oxygen if you’re enveloped in it for too long. It’s happened to singers in the past. Back then, they used real fog. Chauvet wanted it thicker than it needed to be. That was tough for everyone but him. With all the infidelity, betrayal, lying, and cheating in this opera, aside from the singing, someone’s going to want to kill someone. Onstage, anyway. Killing is common in opera. I mean the stage variety, of course. Seems every time the golden ring changes hands in these Ring operas, someone ends up dead.”
