“Put a few people on it. Ask who was here. Ask them who they remember being here. See if someone remembers someone being here who claims he or she wasn’t here.”
“Elimination will lead us …” he began with enthusiasm.
“… probably nowhere,” I said. “But that’s where we start. And we’ll need people here twenty-four hours a day watching and protecting while I look for our playmate Erik. That’ll cost.”
“Since we stand to lose over two million dollars if we do not open Butterfly to reasonably good sales,” he said, “we’ll pay for protection. Do you have a service in mind?”
“I could bring my staff up from Los Angeles,” I said, rubbing my chin, thinking about a bonus.
“Fine.”
“We’re a little unorthodox,” I warned.
“So is an opera,” Lundeen said, now rubbing his rings while he continued to puff at the El Perfecto.
“Let’s say one week through opening night. Flat fee of five hundred dollars above what you’re already paying me. If we have to go longer, we’ll talk about it later.”
“Sounds most reasonable.”
“I’ll get on it. Now I’d like a tour and an introduction to anyone around.”
Lundeen walked me through the dark palace, through closed-off wings, into dark rooms filled with racks of costumes, props, and ancient light stands. Rows of dressing rooms, rehearsal rooms, offices, rooms filled with books, walls covered with paintings and posters demonstrated the master touch of old man Keel, who never knew when too much was too much. We passed some people working, painting, sweeping, but the dozen or so of them were lost in the vastness of the place.
“Impressive,” I said.
“Expensive,” Lundeen sighed. “It’ll take years to fully restore it. The last opera performed here was La Forza Del Destino in 1904.”
“Al Capone liked that one,” I said as we walked.
“Al Capone?”
I didn’t elaborate. I changed the subject.
“What was your specialty?” I asked as we moved into a hallway behind the stage that seemed to be in good shape and well lighted.
“Rossini, Massenet, Bizet, some Mozart, Puccini,” he said. “I did a very credible Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly on a national tour in 1934, but I was considered too light, my voice too popular, for Wagner or even Verdi. I regretted the loss of Verdi, but not of Wagner. That I considered a blessing. Here.”
We stopped in front of a dressing room door. There were voices behind it. Lundeen knocked. A woman said, “Come in.”
In we went.
Vera Tenatti was seated in front of a mirror on a dressing table, one of those mirrors with bulbs around it. Almost all the bulbs were working. A copy of Woman’s Day lay on the table in front of her. Two cute white dogs looked up at her from the cover. The opera diva wasn’t looking at the dogs. She was staring at herself, and she didn’t look pleased by what she saw. An older woman in a dark suit, slender, blond-the woman who had led Vera off the stage-sat next to her, petting the little dog, who began yapping at me.
“Lorna Bartholomew, Vera Tenatti,” Lundeen said, closing the door behind him. “This is Toby Peters, the investigator we’ve hired.”
Lorna stood with a cool hand and a smile. She was polite, handsome, and somewhere else. The dog snapped at my hand.
“I talked to Mr. Peters on the phone,” she said, releasing my hand. “I’m glad you could come. This is Miguelito. He’s a miniature poodle with a very delicate temper.”
“Charmed,” I said.
“Vera?” Lorna touched the young woman’s shoulder. The touch woke Vera from her fascination with her image and she turned.
“I’m fat,” she said.
“I’m Peters,” I said. “And you’re not fat.”
She looked at herself in the mirror again and repeated, “I’m fat.”
“Occupational hazard,” sighed Lundeen. “It takes a strong body, lungs to project. The body must be maintained like a fine instrument. There are no thin cellos. A thin cello would have no depth.”
“It would be a violin,” said Vera. “I would rather be a violin than a cello.”
“I think you’re cute,” I said. “And you’ve got a great voice.”
She turned from the mirror to look at me. I was telling the truth. She knew it. The smile was grateful.
“Mr. Peters simply wants to meet everyone,” Lundeen explained. “And to know if you remember where you were and who you saw last week when that workman died.”
I pulled my pencil and small spiral notebook out of my pocket, ready to start putting things together.
“We were here,” said Lorna, reaching for a black purse on the dressing table and fishing out a pack of Tareytons. “Stoki was here. A few plasterers, the orchestra, the principals. No chorus.”
“The crazy old man,” Vera added.
“Crazy old man?” I asked.
“Raymond,” Lundeen said. “He came with the place. Caretaker. Knows where everything is. He was here before the place closed down in 1905. Makes little sense. He was with Lorna and me when Wyler fell. The three of us saw the man in the cape.”
“I’d like to meet Raymond,” I said.
Lundeen nodded. Since Lorna was standing and smoking, Lundeen took the opportunity to sit in the chair she and Miguelito had vacated. The wooden piece cringed under his weight but held.
“There were others,” Lorna said. “But who remembers? We were rehearsing.”
“Vera was in the middle of her second act solo,” Lundeen added. “And Martin was …”
“Martin?” I asked.
“Passacaglia, the tenor,” Lundeen explained. “He was in his dressing room, I think.”
“He wasn’t on stage,” Lorna confirmed. “But neither was Pepe, the … who remembers?”
I put my notebook away.
“Do you need me for anything more?” Lorna said, looking into my eyes as she petted Miguelito. It was a Lana Turner line. She handled it so well I couldn’t tell if she was being polite or encouraging.
“Not now,” I said. “I’d like to talk to Miss Tenatti first.”
Lorna shrugged a suit-yourself shrug. “John knows how to reach me,” she said, putting out her cigarette in a glass ashtray near Vera’s elbow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Vera.”
She touched the girl’s shoulder. Vera touched the older woman’s hand and patted Miguelito’s head. The dog liked it. Lorna departed.
“I do not like that dog,” Lundeen muttered.
“He’s a sweet dog,” Vera said.
“I can pick it up on my own from here,” I told Lundeen.
“Good. I’ll be in my office most of the night,” Lundeen said, moving to the door. “Do you think you can find your way back there?”
“I’m a detective,” I reminded him.
He smiled and was gone.
“I’ve got some questions,” I said to Vera, sitting in the now available chair and taking my notebook out again.
She shrugged and looked at me. Her eyes were wide, brown, and very deep.
“Yes.” She gave me her attention.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine,” I said, writing in my notebook.
“Thirty-two,” she amended.
I nodded, erased and wrote.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Fifty.”
“Fifty,” she repeated.
“Forty-six,” I said.
She laughed. It was a solid, beautiful, musical laugh.
“Where did you learn to sing?”
“St. Louis,” she said. “I’ve been singing since I was four. You want to know my real name?”
“Sure.”
“Vera Katz.”
“Mine’s Tobias Pevsner.”
“Really?” she said, showing interest. I nodded and she went on. “My mother was a singer. Local, light opera. My father was, is a music professor at Washington University. That’s my life. Sing and get fat.”
“You’re not fat,” I demurred. “You’re very pretty and voluptuous.”
She blushed.
“Brothers, sisters?”
“I was the only one. You?”
“A brother,” I said. “Big, mean, a cop. You know what’s going on here?”
“I’ve heard,” she said with a shrug.
“You afraid?”