Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens (28 page)

He washed down his food with a swig of coffee. “Usher told me.”

“Let me guess. You charmed it out of her.”

“Hell, no. She’s a bitch on wheels. She couldn’t wait to brag about it.”

I poked at my omelet, though I’d pretty much lost my appetite. This description of my most extravagant customer made me uncomfortable. I was still wondering whether I should defend Usher when Tony went on.

“She’d been sleeping with Solano, too.”

I put down my fork. “Do you still have that chart you made?”

“It’s up on the whiteboard at the station. You should see it now. It’s like a diagram of the solar system on crack.”

I took a swallow of coffee. “Did you ever talk to the singer Vi took over for? Lydia…”

“Taylor. Yeah, I talked to her. She called in sick because Passaggio had made a pass at her the day before at a rehearsal. She was still upset.”

“Jeez, who does he think he is? Casanova?”

Tony made no comment.

I thought back to my conversation with David Ebinger. I was reluctant to discuss his grief with Tony, but felt I should at least inquire where he stood.

“What about Ebinger?” I said, stirring my coffee. “Did you talk to him?”

“Guy’s an oyster. He’s not giving anything up. But he was onstage during Act Three except at the very beginning, so he’s got an alibi.”

“So he’s not a suspect?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed as he chewed another bite of food. He swallowed and stabbed a papita.

“I’m pretty sure Passaggio’s our guy. Trouble is, his wife is providing him with an alibi. I think she’s lying, but I can’t prove anything. We still don’t have the murder weapon.”

I sipped my coffee. “What about Vi? Do you think he….”

“Yeah. I think she knew something, or found out something, that made her a threat. So he killed her.”

I closed my eyes. I ought to ask about the autopsy results, but I was becoming overwhelmed by sadness.

“She was dead before she went in the pit,” Tony said.

I looked at him, swallowing the tightness in my throat.

“Sorry if that’s too abrupt. I just wanted you to know she didn’t suffer. She was killed by a fall from a height. We suspect from the top of the stage, after which she was placed in the pit. Should I stop?”

I shook my head and sipped more coffee. I had to hold the cup with both hands.

“The evidence team found some of her DNA on top of the lift platform. We think the lift was down when she fell, then someone raised it enough to push her into the pit, then lowered it again.”

I winced.

“I’ll stop.”

I traded the coffee for my water glass. “Who knew how to raise and lower the B-lift?”

“It’s not rocket science. There are two buttons, ‘up’ and ‘down’.”

“No safety lock or anything? No key?”

“Nope.”

I frowned. Something was niggling at the back of my mind.

“I want to see it,” I said.

“What, the B-lift?”

“Yes. I … want to look at it from the stage. Can you get me in?”

“They won’t be happy. Every time I go back there I get sour looks.”

“You can do it, though, right?”

He tilted his head. “There’s nothing to see. There wasn’t much even when the techs were processing it, and it’s been cleaned up since then.”

“I’m not looking for evidence. That’s your job.”

“What, then?”

“I’m not sure.”

I couldn’t put my feeling into words, or at least not words that would make sense to Tony. If I told him about my dream he’d dismiss it. But I had the feeling there was something to see, as strongly as I’d had when I’d signed up for the tour to check the water in the pool.

Bad example, Rosings. You didn’t find anything then.

But as a result of that hunch, I’d been present when Vi’s body was found.

A cold shiver went through me.

Tony glanced up from mopping up chile sauce with a tortilla. I realized he’d been silent for a couple of minutes. Letting me think things through.

“Vi told me she was distracted by something she saw from the upstage platform,” I said. “She got in trouble for missing a cue.”

Tony’s brows drew together. “When?”

“It would have been … Monday afternoon, during rehearsal. Probably late afternoon.”

“And she died Tuesday night.”

“It might not be related…”

“At this point I don’t care. The Solano murder’s already getting cold. If we can solve Vi’s murder we might kill two birds with one stone.”

“I don’t know if this will solve her murder.”

“It’s worth a shot, right? You want to go now, or wait until afternoon?”

I put down my glass. The conditions under which Vi was distracted wouldn’t occur until afternoon, but it would be harder to get onto the stage then. They’d be preparing for the evening’s performance.

Also, it would be harder for me to get away from the tearoom then.

“Let’s go now.”

“You’re not finished.”

“Not hungry.” I swallowed the last of my coffee and looked around for the waiter.

Tony paid the bill, forestalling my argument by saying there wasn’t time. “Did you drive?”

“No, I walked.”

“We’ll go on my bike, then.”

“I’m in a skirt!”

“It’s full, right?”

“It could get caught in your wheels!”

“Not if you wrap it around your butt.” He grinned as he stood and picked up his helmet. “I’ll help.”

He led me out of the hotel to a side street where he’d parked his bike. I thought about suggesting that we go to my place and get my car, but that would just take extra time, which neither of us could afford. Plus, he would think I was chicken.

Which maybe I was.

I don’t much like motorcycles. I don’t like the noise and the vibration, even when I’m not on one.

I was at a loss for how to mount a motorcycle gracefully in a skirt. Miss Manners had not covered that, so far as I knew.

Tony got on his bike and sat grinning at me. I pulled the skirt to my left while I swung my right leg over. The skirt hiked up above my right knee.

“Good,” Tony said. “Now wrap the extra fabric across your lap and sit on it.”

I did so. Now both my legs were on display.

“Is it going to stay?” he asked.

I tugged at the skirt. “I think so.”

“Put this on.” He handed me the helmet. I strapped it on, then wrapped my arms around his waist.

“Hold tight,” he said, and started the engine.

He glided away from the curb and into traffic. Maybe he was humoring me, but it seemed gentler than the last time I’d ridden with him. I dreaded getting on the highway, though.

He turned onto Paseo de Peralta heading north. I caught myself holding my breath and deliberately inhaled. To my surprise, Tony took a left turn and drove to the tearoom, pulling up beside my car in the back.

“Change your mind?” I said, my voice muffled by the helmet.

“Safer.”

Unspeakably relieved, I got off the bike and gave him back his helmet, shook my skirt down around my legs, then took out my keys and unlocked my car. Tony went around to the passenger side and deposited the helmet on the back seat. I drove out of town and got on the highway to the Opera.

“You just wanted me to show you my knees,” I said, when I was sufficiently composed.

He grinned. “I wanted to see if you’d do it.”

“You know I dislike motorcycles.”

“Uh-huh.”

I shot him a dirty look and devoted my attention to driving.

Despite the early hour, there was already an attendant in the Opera’s parking lot. He waved us toward a specific space in the lot that was empty except for three other cars. I humored him and parked where he indicated. We walked down to the entrance, where a flash of Tony’s badge and a few words of explanation got us past the gate.

My heart was thumping. Maybe it was leftover reaction from the bike ride. I felt nervous and unsteady, and was tempted to slide my hand through Tony’s elbow. It would cramp his cop style, though, so I didn’t.

We walked around the south side of the house. I hadn’t been back since the backstage tour, of course. Memories of that awful morning increased my anxiety.

The stage was set with a collection of gray, geometric platforms of varying heights, connected here and there by small sets of stairs. Looked like an uncomfortable set. At the back of the top platform was a railing that appeared to have been made out of metal pipe. I wondered if it was part of the set or if it was a safety precaution.

This must be the set for
Cesar Chavez
; the premiere had been the previous night. They’d be switching to
Tosca
soon, unless there was a rehearsal for something else in the afternoon.

A stage hand came out onto the platforms and knelt down at a corner where two of them joined. A couple of thumps, and he moved to another spot.

Tony led me to the stage door. I glanced at the unhelpful reflecting pool while he knocked. It took a few tries before someone answered.

“We could go around,” I said, just as the door was opened by a skinny, shaggy-bearded guy in baggy jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt.

Tony showed his badge. “Detective Aragón. We need to look around the stage.”

“We’re changing scenery.”

“We’ll keep out of your way.”

Tony moved a half-step forward. It worked; the guy backed up and Tony stepped in. I followed him through the door and past the wings, out onto the stage.

Out of curiosity, I glanced toward the audience. The house seemed smaller from this angle. The pool glinted in a ray of sunlight reflected off of something outside.

The stage hand was working on a platform stage right. Tony led me up the set of steps farthest to the left. Stepping from platform to platform, we worked our way up and back until we were beside the pipe railing. We had to be at least twelve feet above the stage floor.

I looked out the back at the landscape behind the theatre. The roof cut off my view of the mountains; all I could see were the back deck, the hillside beyond it, and the rainwater collection tanks. I searched in vain for a glint of distracting light. Whatever had caught Vi’s eye wasn’t noticeable now.

Disappointed, I looked down. The B-lift was down, its surface level with the back deck. Certainly a dangerous fall. I instinctively stepped back and felt Tony’s arm come up behind me.

“Careful,” he said.

I glanced around and saw that I was close to the front edge of the platform. A much shorter fall, but still not fun. I moved to the center of the platform and slowly turned completely around.

There had to be something here. I was sure there must be.

I peered into the wings, out at the seats and the mezzanine, down at the orchestra pit and the pool. I could see a glimpse of the stage manager’s console, and part of the railing on the stairs backstage left.

What could have distracted Vi?

I faced upstage again. She had said she was looking out the back of the stage when she missed her cue. I stared at the back deck, and the hillside beyond it. Nothing.

A heavy tread shook the platform where we stood and made hollow, drum-like thumps. I looked around and saw a man in black shirt and jeans, with a black ball cap pulled over sandy curls, approaching us from the stage.

“I’m sorry, you can’t be up here.”

Tony showed his badge. “SFPD. Just checking something.”

“We have to take down this platform.”

The guy sounded cranky. I cast one more glance at the hillside out back, then turned to Tony.

“Let’s walk out onto the deck.”

“Who is this?” demanded the guy in black.

“Consultant,” Tony said, stepping past him to the stairs.

I followed him down and into the wings. The guy in black followed me. I headed for the stairs to the deck, and Tony came with me.

My heart started to thump as we descended. The whir of the B-lift starting up didn’t help. I kept my gaze away from the pit and walked straight out onto the back deck, toward the hillside.

“Did you see something?” Tony asked.

“No.”

I walked along the edge of the deck toward the north. Now I could see the mountains, deep shades of blue against the brighter blue of the sky, but I gave them only a brief glance. I peered over the railing at the hillside, which was quite a drop from where I stood. I was looking for something on the ground. Something shiny.

A knife? Come on, Rosings, they must have searched all around here.

“We’ve been over this,” Tony said quietly, echoing my thoughts.

I reached the northern edge of the deck. The scene shop was there; closed. I went back the other way, and down the stairs to the level below, where the scenery storage was. Outside there, we were closer to the hillside. I peered at the ground and under the bushes, until we reached the water tanks.

“Babe…”

Water.

I took a sharp breath and looked up at the tanks. There was no ladder that I could see, not from this side anyway.

I had been able to see the top of the tanks from the upstage platform. Something on top of the tanks could have glinted, catching Vi’s eye. The angle of the sun would be different in the afternoon, when she was rehearsing.

I glanced around and saw that the guy in black was watching us from the foot of the stairs. I turned away from him, facing the water tanks.

“Tony, did you search on top of these?”

He looked at me, then his gaze rose to the top of the tank, probably twenty feet high, as his eyes widened.

“Shhhit,” he said.

He hopped over the railing onto the hillside and strode to the south side of the southern tank, setting up puffs of dust from the dry soil. A ladder was mounted on the side of the tank, and Tony was up it in seconds.

“Hey!”

I turned to face the guy in black, ready to do my feeble best to fend him off.

“You can’t go up there!” he said, coming toward us.

“We have a warrant that says he can,” I said, hoping it was true.

The guy in back apparently believed me, because he slowed down and just frowned up at Tony. Tony walked around on top of the tank, then bent down out of sight. There was a moment’s silence.

“Hey, Ellen, what time is it?”

I checked my watch. “Nine-forty-seven.”