Murder at the Opera Read Online Free PDF Page A

of occasions, didn’t we, Mac? How nice to see us on the same side this time around, or should I say on the same stage? Actually, it’s not called a stage in opera.”
    “Oh?” Mac said. “What is it, then?”
    “A deck. The earliest stagehands were seamen who were used to climbing ropes and riggings to high places. It seems that—”
    Genevieve interrupted their conversation. “Time to meet our director,” she said in her lilting voice. “Follow me.” She led them from the dressing room up to the cavernous main stage, where the production’s director, Anthony Zambrano, was conferring with assistants. Surrounding them was the half-finished second act set, a palatial apartment in the Farnese Palace used by Baron Scarpia, the chief of the Roman police, and one of opera’s most infamous villains.
    “Tony,” Genevieve announced with a flourish, “your supernumeraries are here.”
    Zambrano, a short, wiry man with sharply defined facial features, a full head of steely gray hair, and wearing a pale yellow, light-weight cardigan over the shoulders of his navy T-shirt, turned and displayed a toothy smile.
    “Ah, yes,” the director said, hands on his hips and head cocked as he scrutinized these men and women who would be his monks and soldiers. Zambrano, who’d been brought in from Italy to direct this production of Tosca, walked past each super, frowning and making small grunting sounds, a commander inspecting his troops. Mac found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable at having his physical attributes so brazenly evaluated. Zambrano turned abruptly on his heel and motioned for Genevieve to accompany him to a remote area of the stage.
    Annabel, who’d been watching from a distance, came to her husband and gave him a reassuring smile.
    “Cocky little guy, isn’t he?” Mac whispered.
    “They say he’s immensely talented,” Annabel said, “on a par with Menotti, Zeffirelli, and Guthrie.”
    “That may be, but I get the feeling he’s not happy with us,” said Mac.
    “You’re imagining things,” she said.
    “Interesting,” Mac said.
    “What is?”
    “The stage floor. The deck. It gives.” He bounced up and down on the surface, which appeared to be constructed of some sort of rubber.
    “They could use better housekeeping,” Annabel said casually.
    “What do you mean?”
    She pointed to a small, irregular, maroon stain on the floor.
    He crouched to see it more closely. “Looks like somebody had a nosebleed.”
    Genevieve came to them.
    “Everything all right?” Annabel asked.
    “Not really. Anthony is unhappy with a few of my supers.”
    “I don’t handle rejection well,” Mac said, adding a laugh.
    “You passed muster,” Genevieve said.
    “Whew,” Mac said, wiping imaginary perspiration from his brow.
    Genevieve lowered her voice. “He’s not happy with your boss, Dr. Burns.”
    Mac looked across the stage to where Wilfred Burns, president of George Washington University, chatted with professors from the other schools who’d agreed to appear as supers.
    “I told Anthony that he couldn’t dismiss certain supers like Dr. Burns because—well, because of who they are.”
    “If you need a volunteer to bail,” Smith said, “I’m available.”
    “Not on your life,” Genevieve said. “Tony described you as ruggedly handsome.”
    “Isn’t he though?” said Annabel.
    “He may not like certain supers who are here,” Genevieve said, “but I have my own problems. I’m still missing a woman.”
    “Oh?”
    “Charise Lee, from the Young Artist Program. They pressed her into duty for one performance, but she’s not here. She didn’t show up for her costume fitting, either.”
    Zambrano clapped his hands and called everyone to form a semicircle around him. He welcomed the group and said he intended to walk everyone through the basic blocking that would be used during the performance, to give them a feel for the stage on which they’d be working, although most rehearsals would