Bantam of the Opera by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online

assembled on the matching sofas that flanked the big coffee table. Judith perched on an armless rocker, a relic of Grandma Grover’s youth. She had seen Joe in action before, but the sight never failed to intrigue her.
    â€œSo at least three of you handled this rock,” said Joe with a reproachful glance at his wife. He paused to let Judith, Plunkett, and Tippy nod in acknowledgment. “Then we can kiss the idea of fingerprints good-bye.”
    â€œGloves,” said Schutzendorf, who was wedged between Tippy and Plunkett. “This madman probably wore gloves.”
    â€œMaybe.” Joe set the rock down on the mantel, next to a wedding picture taken of him and Judith outside of Our Lady, Star of the Sea Catholic Church. Tiny pumpkin-shaped lights draped across the stone fireplace struck a deceptively cheerful note. The carved jack-o’-lantern on the coffee table, with its faint leer, seemed more in keeping with the current atmosphere. “I’ll go talk to the neighbors. Maybe the Rankers or the Porters or the Ericsons or the Steins saw something.”
    â€œThe Steins are in Mexico,” said Judith.
    â€œLucky Steins,” muttered Joe, heading for the entry hall. “Jesus, I finish a day with gang shootings and crazy dopers and spouse killers and come home to find my…” He was still grumbling when he banged out the front door.
    Flinching, Judith surveyed her guests with considerable uncertainty. “Uh…Could I get more brandy? Crackers? Chips?” A quick glance at the grandfather clock told her it was after seven. “Would you like me to call about your…dinner reservation?”
    Blank stares met her question. “Dinner reservation?” Winston Plunkett looked at Judith curiously.
    â€œWhere’s the pasta?” demanded Mario Pacetti.
    â€œI’d settle for a burger and fries,” announced Tippy de Caro.
    â€œThe vurst,” rumbled Schutzendorf.
    â€œMore brandy, please,” begged Amina Pacetti.
    â€œWait a minute,” said Judith, getting up from the rocker. She asked the dreaded question. “Did you plan to eat here? ”
    Schutzendorf’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “The table is set, nein? ”
    â€œI smell food,” said Pacetti.
    â€œI could eat a horse,” announced Tippy.
    â€œOur last meal was in Oregon.” Winston Plunkett’s thin voice made it sound like a million miles away.
    Frantically, Judith took a mental inventory of her freezer. Chicken breasts. Lots of chicken breasts. She could thaw them in the microwave. Beans. She had cans and cans of beans, from Falstaff’s last special. And pasta—she always had plenty of pasta. Tortellini. Linguini. Fettuccine. She could do it…Judith gave a brisk nod. “Thirty minutes. The brandy bottle is in the dining room. Drink up. Enjoy. You’ve polished off the Riesling.”
    Grimly, Judith marched into the kitchen, giving the swinging door an extra big shove. She would charge them for dinner, of course. Just add it to their final bill. Ten bucks a plate. That was fair. Why the hell hadn’t those idiots at the opera house told this bunch of loonies that sheonly served breakfast? And hors d’oeuvres? Why the hell had they come in the first place? Why the hell had she let them? Judith was as angry with herself as she was with her guests. She stomped down to the basement to get the chicken breasts out of the freezer.
    It was eight o’clock before she and Joe sat down to their own dinner. The guests were still in the dining room, stuffing themselves with chicken, pasta, and green beans. Joe patted butter on his baked potato and regarded Judith with a wry expression.
    â€œNobody—including Arlene—saw anything or anybody. What do you think, Jude-girl—is this some sort of operatic ritual?”
    Judith sighed. “I don’t know—I’m used to ordinary people, tourists, honeymooners, getaway couples.