Patrice Greenwood - Wisteria Tearoom 03 - An Aria of Omens by Patrice Greenwood

where Cavaradossi was being held.
    The music intensified as Tosca came in and the two lovers began planning their doomed escape. Tony’s hand found mine beneath the blanket. I lost track of the drama onstage.
    Could this work? I must have already asked myself a hundred times. There was no way to be certain. On an emotional level, Tony and I connected just fine. Socially: that was the question.
    I would probably be as uncomfortable at a gathering of his friends as he was, here tonight. He’d been so patient, though. So generous, when I knew going in that this wasn’t his kind of fun. At the very least, I owed him reciprocation.
    On stage, Tosca sang of the future she pictured for herself and Cavaradossi, a glorious future filled with happiness, which she would never see. Her lover knew it would not happen, but she clung to that bright hope.
    Was I equally naïve?
    The jailer took Cavaradossi away, to stand before a firing squad for his supposedly fake execution. From beyond the grave, Scarpia reached out to flip the lovers a final bird: the bullets are real, and Cavaradossi is dead. Tosca, thinking he’s pretending, begs him not to move until the soldiers have all gone.
    A shout, and a hubbub of voices offstage. Tosca froze briefly, glanced toward stage left, then again told her lover not to move. As last she felt safe and told him to get up—and discovered his death was real.
    The rest happened quickly. Voices and clamor offstage again, this time from the right. Scarpia’s officers returned, accusing Tosca of killing him. Tosca ran up to the top of a balcony at the rear of the stage, and with a wordless cry, leapt over it to her death. Even though I’d been expecting it, I gasped.
    End of opera. I was glad. A marvelous performance all around, but I felt drained and a bit depressed.
    I let go of Tony’s hand to applaud. The chorus took their bow, then the bit parts—we shouted “Brava!” for Vi—then the soloists. When everyone but Scarpia, Cavaradossi, and Tosca had taken their bows, an lengthy pause followed. Some of the audience rose to their feet, anticipating Mr. Solano’s entrance.
    But he didn’t enter. Tosca and Cavaradossi came on, holding hands, and bowed. They were smiling, but Tosca looked a bit wild-eyed.
    The audience shouted “Victor, Victor!”
    Still no Scarpia.
    Tony jumped in surprise and reached for his pocket. Phone on buzz-mode; he took it out, grimaced, and leaned over to mutter an apology in my ear.
    “Sorry, gotta go.”
    He got up and hurried out to the south patio, phone to his ear. I watched, expecting him to leave the grounds, but instead he headed for the stage door.
    It was cracked open; someone was there. Tony paused, pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge, and disappeared inside.

 
     
3
    O h, no!” I said.
    Nat, next to me, gave me a questioning look. The audience was still cheering, still calling for Victor Solano.
    “Something’s happened,” I told Nat.
    The cast took another bow, led by Tosca and Cavaradossi, then left the stage. The audience cried out in protest. The applause began to falter, and voices filled the house, questioning, speculating.
    I stood, grabbed my blanket and my other belongings, and hurried after Tony. The stage door was closed. I pounded on it, to no avail.
    Mr. Ingraham appeared beside me. “Where’s Tony?”
    “In there. He got a page. Something’s terribly wrong.” I tried the handle, but it was locked. I kept pounding.
    “Ellen, that won’t do any good.”
    “I have to see Tony.”
    “Why?”
    I stopped. Why, indeed? I’d been going on pure instinct, the knowledge that there was trouble and that I wanted to help.
    Tony was doing his job, though. I’d just be in the way.
    The stage door opened a crack, and a man in black clothes, wearing a headset and a stressed frown, looked out.
    “I need to speak to Detective Aragón,” I told him.
    “I-I’m sorry—”
    “Please, just ask him to call Ellen. Can you do that?”
    The man