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lead us …” he began with enthusiasm.
    “… probably nowhere,” I said. “But that’s where we start. And we’ll need people here twenty-four hours a day watching and protecting while I look for our playmate Erik. That’ll cost.”
    “Since we stand to lose over two million dollars if we do not open Butterfly to reasonably good sales,” he said, “we’ll pay for protection. Do you have a service in mind?”
    “I could bring my staff up from Los Angeles,” I said, rubbing my chin, thinking about a bonus.
    “Fine.”
    “We’re a little unorthodox,” I warned.
    “So is an opera,” Lundeen said, now rubbing his rings while he continued to puff at the El Perfecto.
    “Let’s say one week through opening night. Flat fee of five hundred dollars above what you’re already paying me. If we have to go longer, we’ll talk about it later.”
    “Sounds most reasonable.”
    “I’ll get on it. Now I’d like a tour and an introduction to anyone around.”
    Lundeen walked me through the dark palace, through closed-off wings, into dark rooms filled with racks of costumes, props, and ancient light stands. Rows of dressing rooms, rehearsal rooms, offices, rooms filled with books, walls covered with paintings and posters demonstrated the master touch of old man Keel, who never knew when too much was too much. We passed some people working, painting, sweeping, but the dozen or so of them were lost in the vastness of the place.
    “Impressive,” I said.
    “Expensive,” Lundeen sighed. “It’ll take years to fully restore it. The last opera performed here was La Forza Del Destino in 1904.”
    “Al Capone liked that one,” I said as we walked.
    “Al Capone?”
    I didn’t elaborate. I changed the subject.
    “What was your specialty?” I asked as we moved into a hallway behind the stage that seemed to be in good shape and well lighted.
    “Rossini, Massenet, Bizet, some Mozart, Puccini,” he said. “I did a very credible Pinkerton in Madame Butterfly on a national tour in 1934, but I was considered too light, my voice too popular, for Wagner or even Verdi. I regretted the loss of Verdi, but not of Wagner. That I considered a blessing. Here.”
    We stopped in front of a dressing room door. There were voices behind it. Lundeen knocked. A woman said, “Come in.”
    In we went.
    Vera Tenatti was seated in front of a mirror on a dressing table, one of those mirrors with bulbs around it. Almost all the bulbs were working. A copy of Woman’s Day lay on the table in front of her. Two cute white dogs looked up at her from the cover. The opera diva wasn’t looking at the dogs. She was staring at herself, and she didn’t look pleased by what she saw. An older woman in a dark suit, slender, blond—the woman who had led Vera off the stage—sat next to her, petting the little dog, who began yapping at me.
    “Lorna Bartholomew, Vera Tenatti,” Lundeen said, closing the door behind him. “This is Toby Peters, the investigator we’ve hired.”
    Lorna stood with a cool hand and a smile. She was polite, handsome, and somewhere else. The dog snapped at my hand.
    “I talked to Mr. Peters on the phone,” she said, releasing my hand. “I’m glad you could come. This is Miguelito. He’s a miniature poodle with a very delicate temper.”
    “Charmed,” I said.
    “Vera?” Lorna touched the young woman’s shoulder. The touch woke Vera from her fascination with her image and she turned.
    “I’m fat,” she said.
    “I’m Peters,” I said. “And you’re not fat.”
    She looked at herself in the mirror again and repeated, “I’m fat.”
    “Occupational hazard,” sighed Lundeen. “It takes a strong body, lungs to project. The body must be maintained like a fine instrument. There are no thin cellos. A thin cello would have no depth.”
    “It would be a violin,” said Vera. “I would rather be a violin than a cello.”
    “I think you’re cute,” I said. “And you’ve got a great voice.”
    She turned from