Murder at the Opera

“Laurie is right,” Frazier said. “I know it’s a temptation to respond to reporters’ questions, but it’s in our best interest not to. Unless anyone has something to add, let’s move on to the second item on the agenda, the Opera Ball.”

Webster excused herself: “I’d better get back to my office. Media calls were piling up when I left.”

The Opera Ball chairwoman, Nicki Frolich, was next to address the gathering. It had occurred to A

Frolich, whose husband was one of the area’s best-known plastic surgeons, was experienced at spearheading big-ticket fundraisers, despite her relatively young age (no one except those who needed to know knew for certain how old she was, although the consensus was that her fiftieth birthday was still to be celebrated). Five feet, four inches tall, she gave the appearance of being taller by the way she held herself. Her silver-blond hair was styled short, with chunky highlights and short layers to make her seem taller, and to elongate her round face. Her energy level was capable of fatiguing marathoners, her smile wide, white, and genuine. She ran the committee as though it were a Fortune 500 company, and A

Frolich concluded her status report by saying, “As Bill said, we mustn’t allow the tragedy of Ms. Lee’s death to derail our efforts to make this year’s Ball the biggest and best ever, to say nothing of the most profitable.” She spoke directly to A

Frazier went through the remaining items on the agenda. The final notation was Internal Investigation. “Those of you at the emergency meeting last night are aware that we’ve decided to conduct our own investigation into Ms. Lee’s death. One of the supers in Tosca, a…” He looked to A

“Pawkins,” A

“I know him,” said the woman in charge of WNO’s development program. “He has season tickets, has had them for years. He’s a charming man.”

“Yes, isn’t he?” A

Frazier broke into their conversation. “Camile will coordinate with A

Frazier concluded by saying, “I hope what Laurie said will be heeded. We don’t need the press twisting what any of us say, and that includes the use of this detective to help us investigate internally. Anything else?”

A

“When can we get together with Mr. Perkins?” she asked.

“It’s Pawkins,” A

Mac and Pawkins were in the middle of breakfast when his cell phone rang.

“Hi, sweetheart,” A

She heard Mac confer with Pawkins. “Ray says he’s free all day.”

“This afternoon at WNO headquarters? Say two?” was A

Another confab between the men. “We’ll be there,” said Mac.

A

Mac and Pawkins were finishing their coffee. Mac had dressed casually in response to the hot weather that was pressing down on the city. He was in chino slacks, a tangerine-colored polo shirt, and sneakers. Pawkins, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the heat and humidity. He wore a beautifully tailored, blue poplin suit, a pale cream shirt, and a tie with a graphic of the Mona Lisa on its blue field. The air-conditioning in the restaurant was barely keeping up with the discomforting weather, and Mac dabbed at perspiration on his forehead from time to time. Pawkins never broke a sweat; Mac thought of the E. G. Marshall character in the film Twelve Angry Men.

“Where do you live, Ray?” Smith asked.

“ Great Falls.”

Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Lovely area,” he said.

“How does a retired cop live in such a high-rent district?” Pawkins said. “I fell into it. I rented a gatehouse for years owned by a wealthy real estate guy. He decided to sell and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Actually, it’s pretty modest, although I’ve put in some improvements. How do you like living in the Watergate?”

“We’re very happy there.”

“That’s what counts.”

“You said last night that something had been wedged into the wound to stop the bleeding. Any idea what it was?”

“A sponge.”

“Oh? I had the feeling that you didn’t know what it was.”

“I didn’t. I called Carl Berry this morning before meeting with you. He’s lead on the case.”

“You work fast.”

“The faster the better where homicide is concerned. Carl is a good guy, a straight shooter, at least with me.”

“You told him you were investigating for the opera company?”

Pawkins nodded.

“I imagine the powers-that-be there would prefer to keep it sub rosa,” Smith said.

“To the extent that it can be. I’ll need MPD cooperation, at least unofficially.” He pushed back his chair, cocked his head, and gri

“I have a feeling you’ll answer that question.”

“That’s my intention.” Pawkins motioned for the check.

They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and agreed to meet at the Opera’s administrative offices at two. As they shook hands, Mac laughed.

“What’s fu

“We spent an entire breakfast without any references from you to operas and opera singers.”

“Deliberately,” Pawkins said. “I sensed your discomfort when I fell into my habit of relating everything to opera. I promise to curb the temptation. Looking forward to working with you, Mac. It’s nice to be walking on the wi