Murder at the Opera (Capital Crimes)

ONE

“Mac, you must do it.” “No.” “Its an honor, for you and for the school.”

“I dont see anything honorable about middle-aged men dressed in loincloths strutting around carrying spears. I thought wed progressed beyond that.”

Annabel knew her husband wouldnt be an easy sell. But his flippant comment meant she was making progress. There would be an obligatory protest before caving in.

“Im not an actor,” he added.

Theyd finished breakfast and had taken refilled mugs of coffee out onto the balcony of their Watergate apartment. It was a warm, muggy morning in early June, a harbinger of another sweltering summer in D.C. The sky was a milky blue. Below, the rippling waters of a cleaner Potomac River danced in the sunlight. Farther up the river, the familiar spires of Georgetown University rose proudly into the air.

“Of course youre an actor,” Annabel said. “You cant be a high-powered trial lawyer without being an actor. I saw you in action when you were trying cases. You were Olivier in a gray three-piece suit.”

“That was then,” he said. “Today I am just a stodgy professor, and happy to be.”

She considered her next argument. Shed practiced her own share of theatrics while representing clients in high-profile domestic disputes. That was then, too. Shed given up matrimonial law to open a pre-Colombian art gallery in Georgetown, which was doing nicely. Giving up their respective law practices had been a decision theyd come to at different times, and for different reasons.

For Annabel, attempting to mediate wrenching battles between warring spouses had become almost unbearable, especially when both sides were engaged in self-destructive behavior, domestic suicide bombers intent on injuring each other.

For him, the death of his first wife and only child at the hands of a drunken driver on the Beltway one rainy night had tipped the scales in favor of his escaping what had become one of Washingtons preemi- nent criminal law firms, abandoning it to his three partners, and becoming Mackensie Smith, professor of law at the prestigious George Washington University.

Neither Mac nor Annabel had regretted their decisions, not even fleetingly.

“Mac,” she said softly, touching his arm, “using prominent people as supernumeraries in productions has gotten the opera lots of good press, which translates into ticket sales. Youll be in good company. Last year, two spear-toting Supreme Court justices wore costumes in a production. You read about them in the Post. And the Secretary of State and his wife did, too, the season before. This time its professors from the areas universities. Besides, its Tosca, Mac. Puccini. Youll love it.”

“You know Im not an opera fan,” he said.

“But youll become one. I guarantee it. Tosca is the perfect intro for you. It has all the elements of great dramasex, betrayal, corruption, and murderand gorgeous music.” She checked his expression. She almost had him. Time to go in for the kill. “Besides,” she said, “Ive already committed you.” Before he could respond, she added, “Its important to me, Mac. Im new on the board and want to make what contributions I can as quickly as possible.”

He grinned. “And your first contribution is to sacrifice me?”

“Youll do it?”

“Sure. Anything for a good cause.”

“The National Opera is a good cause,” she said.

“I was thinking of you, Annie. Youre the best cause I know.”

He got up from the table, kissed her on the cheek, and headed inside, saying over his shoulder, “Im running late for a faculty meeting. Busy day.”

“Leave time for your fitting,” she said, following him.

He stopped, turned, and said, “Costume fitting? My loincloth?”

“Yes. And stop saying its a loincloth. Its not.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I told Harriet youd be free after four.”

“Where?”

“Takoma Park, the companys rehearsal facility. All the costumes are done there. Oh, and theres a meeting of supers tonight at the Kennedy Center. Seven oclock. Ill go with you.”

He embraced her, kissed her again, this time meaningfully, picked up his briefcase, and stepped into the hall. She stood in the open doorway admiring his purposeful stride in the direction of the ele- vators. He was halfway there when he suddenly stopped, turned, pointed a finger at her, and said, “You owe me one, Annie.”

“Oh? When?”

“Ill collect tonight. And it will be more than just a rehearsal.”

She giggled, and said just loud enough for him to hear but not the neighbors, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

TWO

Mac Smith sometimes thought that if he were president of the university, he would ban all faculty meetings. Occasionally, a meeting went smoothly, accomplished something, and consumed a minimal amount of time, but that was the twice-a-year exception rather than the rule. It all depended, of course, on who chaired the meeting. This day it was the new dean of the law school, a nice enough fellow with impressive credentialsand a tendency to posture. Had there been a fireplace in the room, Mac was certain that the dean would lean an elbow on the mantel and smoke a pipe, allowing for photographs, had smoking been allowed.

The meeting lasted forty-five minutes, thirty-one minutes longer than was necessary to cover the agenda. Mac was first out the door, closely followed by John Renwick, a teaching colleague who shared Macs abhorrence of wasted time. Renwick came into Macs office, tossed his briefcase on a small couch, and said, “Did anything useful come out of this, or did I miss something?”

Mac laughed as he opened the drapes that covered his only window and raised the blinds. “Scuzzy day out there,” he said. He turned to face Renwick. “We just learned from our new leader,” he said, “that someone on Capitol Hill, obviously of the right-wing variety, is considering convening a committee to investigate whether young attorneys being turned out by esteemed institutions like ours need a better grounding in old-fashioned legal principles; translation, more conservative ones. Our leader wants to be on the record as having heeded the call and explored with his faculty this alleged problemwhich, of course, isnt a problem. Whats new with you?”

“Not a lot. Lois wonders whether you and Annabel are free tonight for dinner, a last-minute thing. A college buddy of mine and his wife blew into town, also last-minute. Havent seen him in years. Youd enjoy him. Hes”

“No can do,” Mac said, “but thanks anyway. Prior engagement. Im being fitted for a loincloth.”

“What?”

“Annabel has ensnared me in this opera project cooked up by Public Affairs. Im going to be an extra in Tosca.”

“I think thats wonderful,” said Renwick, mirth in his voice. “You do have good legs.”

“I suggest you leave it right there, my friend.”

“I envy you,” Renwick said. “I love opera. Youll be in heady company, Mac. Our leader is donning a loincloth, too, isnt he?”

“So I hear.”

“Well,” said Renwick, retrieving his briefcase, “good luck. By the way, you wont be an ‘extra in the cast. Extras in opera are called ‘superssupernumerariessupernumerárius in Latin.”

“I know, but I prefer plain old ‘extra, for the same reason I refuse to play that pretentious game at Starbucks of calling a medium-size coffee a grande. I always ask for a medium coffee when I go there, which isnt often. I make better coffee than they do and it doesnt cost me the months mortgage.”

“We have to make our stands where we find them,” Renwick said, laughing and shaking his head. “I was a spear carrier in an opera while working my way through college. Aida. Loved it. Sorry you cant make dinner. Another time. Give my best to Annabel.” He left the office, closing the door behind him.

Mac spent the next few hours fine-tuning a lecture on habeas corpus he would deliver that afternoon, taking a break from time to time to think about less solemn subjects, namely Annabel, dear sweet Annabel, whod entered his life a year after having lost his wife and son and giving him a reason to live again. That she was a beautiful woman was beyond debate, hair the color of Titian copper, fair unblemished skin, and a figure that was at once sleek and voluptuous. He needed only to look at her in dark moments to feel his emotional tide rise. Wrapped in that package was a vigorous, surprisingly poetic mind (for a lawyer) that was seldom swayed by trivial or self-serving manipulations. That shed readily agreed to make him her first and only husband awed him at times. Sometimes you do, indeed, get lucky.

Although theyd structured their married life to maximize time alone together, they were wise enough to know that too much togetherness could prove to be detrimental, and so they pursued the things they loved aside from each other, she her gallery and participation in a few selected arts institutions, he his tennis matches despite an increasingly bothersome knee, consulting commitments to an occasional government agency, and a twice-a-month poker game.

-

The Washington National Opera was Annabels latest involvement. A couple with whom they were friendlyhusband and wife both ardent opera lovershad tried to entice Mac and Annabel into buying season tickets at the Kennedy Center. As much as Annabel would have enjoyed having her husband escort her to the productions, she knew she would be unsuccessful, and contented herself with buying a single season ticket and accompanying their friends. She hadnt been steeped in opera up until that point, and wasnt sure she would find it as enjoyable as they did. But after that first season of five lavishly staged and magnificently performed productions, she was hooked, and not only couldnt wait for the next season to arrive, she became active with WNO 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 companys 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 WNOs board, which she readily accepted. At the moment, she was immersed in plans for the annual Opera Ball, one of Washingtons premiere formal fundraising events.

Mac was pleased with his wifes commitment and offered his steady encouragement. Of course, Annabel continued to try to cajole him into becoming involved, too, but he remained steadfast: “You dont play poker with me,” he said, “and I dont 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 hed commented favorably on a new recording shed 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.

From the Hardcover edition.

Margaret Truman, who knows where all the bodies are buried inside the Beltway, has written her most thrilling novel of suspense yet. Murder at the Opera features the popular crime-fighting couple Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel Reed-Smith, as they navigate the glitz, glamour, and grime that is Washington, D.C.

It aint over till the fat lady sings . . . but the show hasnt even started yet when a diva is found dead. The soprano in question, a petite young Asian Canadian named Charise Lee, was scarcely a star at the Washington National Opera. But when the aspiring singer is stabbed in the heart backstage during rehearsals, she suddenly takes center stage.

Georgetown law professor Mac Smith thought hed just be carrying a rapier in Tosca as a favor for his beloved Annabel, but now theyre both being pressured by the panicked theater board to unmask a killer. Providing accompaniment will be former homicide detective, current P.I., and eternal opera fan Raymond Pawkins.

Soon the Smiths find themselves dangerously improvising among an expanding cast of suspects with all sorts of scores to settle. What they uncover is an increasingly complex case reaching far beyond Washington to a dark world of informers and terror alerts in Iraq, and climaxing on a fateful night at the opera attended by none other than the President himself.

From the Hardcover edition.

Praise for Margaret Truman

“Truman ‘knows the forks in the nations capital and how to pitchfork her readers into a web of murder and detection.”

–The Christian Science Monitor

Murder at The Washington Tribune

“Hooks the reader immediately.”

–The Oklahoman

Murder at Union Station

“Truman has produced another knowing look at Washington politics. She, of all people, should know her characters well, and she draws them with style.”

–The Dallas Morning News

Murder at Fords Theatre

“Dead-on descriptions of Washingtons most crack-ridden streets and exclusionary shindigs . . . Readers who enjoy travelogue, gossip, and social commentary in their whodunits will enjoy Murder at Fords Theatre.”

–USA Today

From the Hardcover edition.