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then. A nice, clean homicide? As effective an aperitif as there ever was.”

 

    SIX

    T he sedate Watergate lobby bar and lounge were sparsely populated when Mac and Annabel arrived. They’d said nothing to each other during the short ride from the Kennedy Center, each immersed in thought. But once seated at a secluded table, they gave voice to those thoughts.
    “What a shock,” Annabel said.
    “At best,” Mac said. “We should have asked your friend Genevieve to join us. She looked like she needed a drink. Maybe a number of them.”
    “Too late now. Oh, there’s Mr. Pawkins.”
    Pawkins slid into a chair. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said, indicating the lack of glasses on the table. That was immediately rectified when a waitress approached and took their order, a snifter of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon for Mac, club soda with lime for Annabel, and a Dubonnet cocktail for Pawkins, along with a request for the bar menu.
    Their drinks served, Pawkins pushed back his chair, folded one long leg over the other, and sipped. “Nice,” he said. He raised his glass. “Good to see you again, Mac, and to meet you, Mrs. Smith.”
    “Please, it’s Annabel,” she said, returning the toast halfheartedly.
    “Did you know the young lady?” Pawkins asked, his eyes focused on the menu he’d been handed.
    “Ms. Lee?” Annabel replied. “Not really. Sorry, that isn’t much of an answer. I’ve been to events sponsored by the opera at which members of the Young Artist Program performed.” Her eyes misted. “I saw her a few months ago at a recital at the Renwick Gallery. She sang Michaela from Carmen, the young country girl. It was—it was lovely.”
    “Never had the pleasure,” said Pawkins. “Obviously, I never will.”
    Annabel managed a smile. “I remember being impressed at her size. That such a big, magnificent voice could come from such a tiny package was remarkable.”
    Pawkins’ smile was expansive. “They say that whenever you have a tenor who is heavier than the soprano, the opera will succeed. Yes, Ms. Lee seems— seemed —quite small-boned for an opera singer. Then again, more and more directors are trying these days to match the visual with the role.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t long ago that Deborah Voight—she’s probably the preeminent Ariadne in the world—had her contract to perform in Ariadne Auf Naxos at Covent Garden canceled because the director wanted her dressed in a skimpy black cocktail dress. Well, Deborah, being a large lady, was hardly the black cocktail dress type. She refused. The cancellation created a worldwide scandal in the opera world. I suppose it worked out for her, though. She went on a diet, lost about a hundred-and-fifty pounds, and is singing better than ever. Ms. Lee’s small stature would have been to her benefit—provided, of course, that the voice matched her physical beauty.”
    “No question that she was murdered?” Mac asked.
    “Oh, no. Stabbed in the chest. I imagine the blade went directly into her heart.”
    Pawkins ordered onion soup and a shrimp cocktail, to be served in that order. Sirens could be heard from outside.
    “Ironic,” Mac said to Pawkins, “that you happened to be there tonight.”
    “Yes, isn’t it? Interesting that you found what appears to be a bloodstain on the deck. We call it a deck in opera because—”
    “Stagehands used to be sailors,” Mac said.
    Pawkins smiled.
    “That’s the extent of my knowledge, thanks to you,” Mac said. “Oh, I do know that we’re supers, not extras.”
    “Exactly,” the lanky man said, refolding his long legs. “About the stain. You wondered why there wasn’t a trail of blood from that spot to where the body was found, assuming, of course, that she was, in fact, murdered on the deck.”
    Mac and Annabel waited for the explanation.
    “Whoever killed Ms. Lee was very proficient.”
    “A proficient killer,” Annabel said. “Professional?”
    Pawkins shrugged as his