Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page B

elaborate built-in desk, its shiny black surface stretching nine feet beneath a series of narrow shelves that held an assortment of office items and small, framed pictures.
    The wall opposite the desk, and a second wall spanning the length of the room and broken only by a large window, held floor-to-ceiling bookcases, their upper shelves reached by a library ladder with wheels at the bottom, and whose top ran along a metal trolley. Every inch of the shelves was filled with books.
    A computer with a twenty-six-inch monitor sat on the desk. Built into the wall of bookshelves behind was a fifty-two-inch flat-panel TV. Next to it was the control unit for a Bose surround-sound system, its multiple, tiny cube speakers discreetly nestled in the room’s corners. The subwoofer sat on the floor beneath the desk.
    Pawkins had personally designed this addition to the carriage house. He’d had to obtain a zoning variance, which took an inordinate amount of time as well as money for a local attorney, but once the legalities had been settled, his vision of the new space was made reality by an old-school contractor whose attention to detail and dedication to quality matched Pawkins’ needs. Construction had been completed a little more than a year ago. Since then, it had become his refuge, his cave where he could enjoy his music, read his books, and conduct what business came his way.
    He opened a tall cabinet in which five hundred CD recordings were stored, arranged alphabetically by artist, and retrieved the one he sought, a London recording of Richard Strauss’ Der Rosenkavalier, with the Vienna Philharmonic conducted by George Solti, and featuring the American soprano Helen Donath, whose airy voice struck a particular chord with Pawkins, whether Donath was playing Sophie in the Strauss masterpiece or Eva in Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.
    He used dimmers to lower the lights, started the CD, and settled in his office chair, one of his cats, a Chartreux who’d adopted him years ago, on his lap. As the rich, melodic music swelled to fill the room, he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and reviewed what had happened that evening. After a few minutes of this introspection, he gently pushed the cat, Wolfgang, to the floor and started making notes on a yellow legal pad. The phone rang. He winced and stared at the receiver. The recorded opera had reached an especially pleasing section and he was loath to stop it. The phone kept ringing; the answering machine next to it had been turned off earlier that day and he’d forgotten to activate it. A button on the remote brought the stereo volume down to background level, and he picked up the receiver.
    “Ray? It’s Mac Smith.”
    Pawkins laughed and lowered the volume even more. “Twice in one night,” he said. “To what do I owe my good fortune?”
    “I assume I’m not interrupting something important,” Smith said, “so I won’t apologize.”
    “Good. Actually, I’m relaxing and enjoying my music. Strauss. Der Rosenkavalier. A perfect bittersweet comedy opera, so different from the blood and gore of his earlier works, Salome and Elektra, although they were fine, too. Quite daring. But you didn’t call for my analysis of Strauss and his operas. It was good seeing you again after all this time. Thanks again for the drink and snacks. I didn’t intend to freeload.”
    “It was my pleasure,” Smith said. “I’ll tell you why I’m calling, Ray. Annabel attended her board meeting. As you can imagine, this murder of the young singer has everyone shaken.”
    “And I’m sure there was plenty of histrionics. Opera lovers tend that way.”
    “I wouldn’t know about that. Look, the board has decided to take whatever steps it can to resolve this internally.”
    “Internally? MPD will love that, a bunch of wealthy opera aficionados playing Sherlock Holmes. Will they break into ‘Di quella pira’ when the killer is apprehended?”
    “Raymond,” Smith said, “we