Murder at the Opera Read Free Page B

you already know that, being the scholars that you are. I suggest you buy tickets and expand your cultural universe beyond video games and MTV. That’s it for today.”
    He packed his briefcase and left the lecture hall, a satisfied smile on his face. The lesson had gone nicely, although his mind had wandered at times to what was in store for him. While he’d expressed obligatory dismay at agreeing to appear in Tosca, he was surprised that there were moments, interspersed with dread, in which he found himself, at once, and privately, looking forward to the experience.
    He’d appeared in two plays while an undergraduate, The Man Who Came to Dinner and A Streetcar Named Desire, both directed by a favorite professor, Joseph Stockdale. Mac had never harbored any desire to become an actor. His aspiration since high school had been the law, particularly trial advocacy, fueled by countless courtroom dramas he’d watched in movie theaters and on television. Stockdale had known this when he cast Mac in the plays, and made the point with the young student that acting experience would hold him in good stead when having to capture and sway a jury. The director had been right, and Mac often thought back to those experiences onstage when crafting a summation to twelve men and women.
    Besides, he reminded himself, it was all for a worthwhile cause, three, actually. It was good for the university, good for the Washington National Opera, and good for his relationship with Annabel. He packed up materials to read at home that night; wished the secretary he shared with John Renwick a pleasant evening; retrieved his car, a seven-year-old blue Ford in pristine condition, from his reserved parking slot; and took 16th Street straight up until turning off onto local roads leading to the WNO facility at Takoma Park. He was early, and after finding street parking he killed time strolling the neighborhood. He and Annabel had enjoyed leisurely weekend forays to the village for its Saturday organic farmer’s market, considered the best in the D.C. area. Takoma Park was sometimes called “the Azalea City,” or “the People’s Republic of Takoma Park” by conservatives unhappy with its well-known leftist political culture. In the 1980s it, along with Berkeley, California, and Madison, Wisconsin, had declared itself a nuclear-free zone, bestowed legal status on nonmarital partnerships, and continued to attempt to ban gas-powered lawn mowers. Takoma Park had long provided an eclectic alternative to dark-suit D.C. to its south, and the Opera was a natural and welcome addition.
    The receptionist signed him in and paged Harriet McKay, who appeared almost instantaneously, welcomed him, and led Mac back through a maze of corridors and doors.
    “Quite a well-dressed setup you have here,” Mac said, taking in room after room of costumes, wigs, props, and passing through one of the three rehearsal areas, where a young blond woman practiced a score on an ebony grand piano.
    “It’s a wonderful facility and we’re fortunate to have it,” McKay said pleasantly. “We’re also delighted that you and President Burns have agreed to take part.”
    “Is he here yet?”
    “His office called. He’s running late. We’ll get you fitted first and on your way. It’s always a problem with the supers.”
    They entered a relatively small room with two mirrored walls. An attractive young woman and a middle-aged man sitting in yellow director’s chairs stood at their entrance. Harriet introduced them as two of her fitters. She pointed to one of four doors. “You can use that room over there to get undressed.”
    “Just my jacket and tie?” he asked.
    “You’ll need to take off more than that,” she said. “You can leave on your shorts and socks. We’ll be fitting you for sandals, too. There’s a robe in there if you’ll be more comfortable.”
    Mac returned wearing the robe.
    McKay consulted notes on a clipboard. “You’ll be appearing in the first and