Murder at the Opera

ONE

“Mac, you must do it.”

“No.”

“It’s an honor, for you and for the school.”

“I don’t see anything honorable about middle-aged men dressed in loincloths strutting around carrying spears. I thought we’d progressed beyond that.”

Annabel knew her husband wouldn’t be an easy sell. But his flippant comment meant she was making progress. There would be an obligatory protest before caving in.

“I’m not an actor,” he added.

They’d 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 you’re an actor,” Annabel said. “You can’t 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. She’d practiced her own share of theatrics while representing clients in high-profile domestic disputes. That was then, too. She’d 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 they’d 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 Washington’s preeminent 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. You’ll 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 it’s professors from the area’s universities. Besides, it’s Tosca, Mac. Puccini. You’ll love it.”

“You know I’m not an opera fan,” he said.

“But you’ll become one. I guarantee it. Tosca is the perfect intro for you. It has all the elements of great drama-sex, betrayal, corruption, and murder-and gorgeous music.” She checked his expression. She almost had him. Time to go in for the kill. “Besides,” she said, “I’ve already committed you.” Before he could respond, she added,

“It’s important to me, Mac. I’m 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?”

“You’ll do it?”

“Sure. Anything for a good cause.”

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

“I was thinking of you, Annie. You’re the best cause I know.”

He got up from the table, kissed her on the cheek, and headed inside, saying over his shoulder, “I’m 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 it’s a loincloth. It’s not.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I told Harriet you’d be free after four.”

“Where?”

“ Takoma Park, the company’s rehearsal facility. All the costumes are done there. Oh, and there’s a meeting of supers tonight at the Kennedy Center. Seven o’clock. I’ll 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 elevators. He was halfway there when he suddenly stopped, turned, pointed a finger at her, and said, “You owe me one, Annie.”

“Oh? When?”

“I’ll 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.”