Murder at the Opera Read Free

itself, contributing a substantial sum of money and becoming a member of the Medici Society, one of many organizations devoted to sustaining and enhancing the company’s financial and artistic goals. After two years of fund-raising and softly suggesting artistic visions and practical ideas to the company, she was surprised and flattered to be offered a seat on WNO’s board, which she readily accepted. At the moment, she was immersed in plans for the annual Opera Ball, one of Washington’s premiere formal fundraising events.
    Mac was pleased with his wife’s commitment and offered his steady encouragement. Of course, Annabel continued to try to cajole him into becoming involved, too, but he remained steadfast: “You don’t play poker with me,” he said, “and I don’t go to the opera with you.” And thus it remained, although the number of CDs grew rapidly, and the apartment was frequently awash with classic recordings, which Mac found increasingly enjoyable, particularly the works of Mozart, Puccini, and Richard Strauss.
    “You love the recorded music,” Annabel would say after he’d commented favorably on a new recording she’d brought into their home.
    “Why not enjoy it in person?”
    “Maybe next year,” he would say.
    And she would say, “You said that last year.”
     

     
    This was this year, and he would finally be going to the opera, not in black tie but in a costume of sorts, and makeup, onstage, for the world to see, including his students, fellow faculty members, and close friends. The thought made him wince and sent him back to the more pleasant and not quite unrelated topic of habeas corpus.

 

    THREE

    A s eighteen GW law students listened to Professor Smith explore the subtleties of unlawful restraint and the use of writs of habeas corpus to prevent it, a class of a different sort of confinement was in session at the rehearsal facilities of the Washington National Opera Studio in Takoma Park, a funky suburban village straddling the upper northwest boundaries of D.C., and Prince George’s and Montgomery counties.
     

     
    WNO had leased the former industrial building in the late 90s, renovated it, and opened its doors in 2000. With three separate rehearsal rooms, each the size of the Kennedy Center’s main stage, multiple productions could be in rehearsal simultaneously, a distinct advantage. The building also housed the company’s vast costume design, manufacture and storage areas, wig collection, and the offices of the Washington National Opera Center for Education and Training. This was the home of the world-renowned Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program that brought many of the most promising singers, pianists, and directors from around the globe to Washington for intensive one-on-one training. On this afternoon, fourteen talented young men and women were immersed in a two-hour Italian lesson. The majority were American; since 9/11, obtaining visas for future opera stars from overseas had become torturous, causing the program’s administrators to concentrate on homegrown talent. But this crop did include a South Korean, two Canadians, and a Spanish baritone.
    The instructor surveyed the class over half-glasses. “We’re missing someone,” he said. “Where is Ms. Lee?”
    Shrugs all around.
    Charise Lee, a promising soprano from Toronto, was not in her usual seat.
    “Is she ill?” asked the instructor.
    “I haven’t seen her all day,” another student replied, echoed by others.
    The instructor wrote Lee’s name on a slip of paper, which he would turn in to the office following class. Unexcused absences were not taken lightly, although they happened with considerable frequency, particularly with the singers in the group.
    “She told me yesterday that she was getting a cold,” a stage director offered.
    The instructor smiled. Opera singers were always on the verge of getting colds, or so it seemed to them. “ The voice,” they would say, referring to themselves, never “