Read Online Bantam of the Opera by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online Page B

into flannel. It beats me. I think Tippy or Amina must be lying. But why?”
    â€œThey’re nuts, that’s why. They’re all nuts.” Renie dipped a piece of deep-fried halibut in tartar sauce. “Is Woody Price really going to keep an eye on the house?”
    â€œSomebody is,” said Judith. “Look, coz, let’s cut to the serious stuff.”
    Renie looked up from the mess she had made in her lap. For Renie, eating wasn’t exactly a spectator sport. “Like what?”
    Judith edged closer on the booth’s vinyl seat. She gazed across the table at her cousin. “You know—like what are you wearing to the opera tonight?”
    Renie laughed. Crumbs flew. Tartar sauce spilled. Coleslaw dripped. The cousins were back in synch.
    Â 
    Judith had spent a busy afternoon, with trips to the grocery store, the liquor store, the bakery, and a quick call on Gertrude and Aunt Deb, who were arguing over which oftheir husbands had died with the most hair. Aunt Deb was right, but Gertrude had won by virtue of a phone call to Alice Wilinski, a mutual friend and longtime dipsomaniac who, Judith figured, probably couldn’t remember if her own husband, Gus, had ever had any hair at all.
    Upon her return to the B&B, Judith had worked like a whilrwind, cleaning the second floor, making a quick pass with the vacuum cleaner in the living and dining rooms, and doing two loads of laundry. Her attempt to organize the kitchen had to be postponed. By the time she came up from the basement, it was almost four o’clock and her guests had congregated for preperformance snacks. Judith grimaced as she witnessed the plundering of the refrigerator. Amina was boiling pasta, tossing salad, mixing dressing. Mario was sitting at the table, napkin tucked under his chin, knife and fork at the ready. Tippy was removing a pile of barbecued jo-jo potatoes from the microwave and smothering them with catsup. Bruno Schutzendorf was frying at least six sausages, ritualistically turning them every ten seconds, then adding a splash of water from the teakettle to increase their sizzle. Even Winston Plunkett was foraging in the bread box. Amina and Bruno vied for control of the stove, she waving a pasta ladle, he brandishing a meat fork. Judith decided it was too dangerous to stay in the kitchen. She could clean up later.
    By contrast that evening, Hillside Manor was singularly quiet. Judith was left alone in the house—no husband, no mother, no son, no guests, no cat. The Pacettis had gone to the opera house around five, with Mario muffled to his nose in scarves under his cashmere overcoat, and Amina carrying a sable muff that matched her hat. Tippy and Plunkett accompanied the Pacettis. A skimpy scarlet dress showed off every curve of Tippy’s figure, and the feather boa she had slung over her bare shoulders gave the impression that she was headed not for the opera house, but a cathouse. Plunkett, as usual, wore gray. Bruno Schutzendorf was the last to leave, resplendent in white tie, tails,and top hat, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the green Tyrolean cape.
    Judith had hoped to get some of her bulbs in, but ran out of time. The rain, which had begun on Friday, pattered softly against the windows. It was not sufficient to daunt a native Pacific Northwesterner such as Judith from working outside, but by the time she finished her other tasks, it was beginning to get dark. Wistfully, Judith looked through the kitchen window. In the garden, the remaining flowers drooped on their stalks. The grass, which had turned brown during the long, unusually dry months of summer, was restored to its lush green state. The old apple tree, a remnant of the original Grover orchard, still sported fruit. The rain kept falling, filling the stone birdbath, washing over the small statue of St. Francis and the birds, giving a silver sheen to the white picket fence that separated Hillside Manor from the Dooleys’