The Devil's Opera(190)
Franz lifted his eyes above her head. “I think we’re about to find out.” He pointed to Byron and Gotthilf coming through the side door. They descended first on Amber. After a brief conversation, she looked to Franz and Marla and beckoned. They followed her and the detectives to the Men’s Dressing Room, on the opposite side of the stage.
Amber closed the door behind them, and the din outside dropped to a dull roar. “Okay, guys, what’s up?”
Byron heaved a big sigh, and began, “You don’t have to worry about Schardius anymore. He’s dead.”
Amber’s eyes widened, and Marla grabbed Franz’s arm in an exceedingly tight grip.
“He ran for the east bridge to the Altstadt, and kept shooting at us. We had no choice but to return fire. He made it to the bridge, but took a hit there and fell over the wall into the canal. By the time we fished him out, he was dead. So,” Byron shook his head, “he won’t be bothering you or anyone else anymore.
Marla shivered for a moment. “I detested the man, yeah, but I don’t think I wanted him dead.”
“If it is any help to you,” Gotthilf put in, “we were tracking him anyway because we suspected him of being involved in several murders. Not a nice man, Herr Schardius.”
“I wish we’d known all this up front,” Amber said bitterly. “Mary wouldn’t have taken a lead pfennig from the man if we’d had any idea that he had that kind of baggage. We were all a little uncomfortable around him, but we couldn’t nail anything down, and we needed the money.”
“If there is a next time,” Gotthilf replied, “which I pray God there isn’t, listen to your instincts.”
“Oh, you betcha,” Amber said.
“Anyway,” Byron concluded, “we’re going to need to take statements from you two ladies, and from the guy with the sword, whoever he is and wherever he went…”
“Friedrich von Logau,” Franz interjected.
“Thanks,” Byron replied as Gotthilf pulled his notebook out, “but that can wait until tomorrow. No pressing need for it now, the way things worked out.”
“But we do need that room sealed off,” Gotthilf said. “It’s a crime scene now. We at least need to get the photographer in there first thing tomorrow.”
Amber shifted uncomfortably. “I knew you would want that, so I had it closed down, and the room behind it—after we got the costumes out.”
The two detectives both started to frown.
“Sorry, guys,” Marla chimed in. “But only two or three people went in, people who were already in there, and as much as possible they walked around the footprints and stuff. But we had to have those costumes.”
Byron looked at Gotthilf, and after a moment they both shrugged.
“It’s not what I would want,” Byron said, “but in this case, I don’t think it’s going to matter. But keep everyone out of there until after we’re done tomorrow morning.”
“We won’t be here until after two in the afternoon,” Amber said. “That’s our regular schedule. We have a few more performances to give before we pack this show away.”
“That’s all for now,” Byron concluded. “We’ll be in touch.” He shook hands with Amber and Franz, and gave Marla a big hug. “Glad we got here in time tonight.” He separated with a big grin. “Jonni would have killed me if I’d let anything happen to her baby sister.”
“Get out of here,” Marla said, grinning also.
* * *
When they came out of the room, they found Mary Simpson and Rebecca Abrabanel standing by the stage manager’s desk, talking with Frau Frontilia and Heinrich Schütz.
Heinrich held out his hands, and Amber took them. “A triumph,” the older musician said. “A veritable triumph, thanks to all of you.”
“Indeed,” Mary said. “The first opera in Germany, written by a German, sung in German, performed by—mostly—Germans. And the emperor stayed awake through the whole thing. All in all, a cause for celebration.”
“I think an even greater cause for celebration,” Rebecca said, “is that our own monarch returned to us. He is not the King Arthur of legend, of course. No real kings are. Still, things would probably be much worse now if he hadn’t.”
“Amen to that,” Amber said.
Dieter had apparently been listening in on the conversation. Still wearing the blond wig, he turned to the celebrating cast and crew.
“Hey, everyone, be quiet! Quiet!”
Dieter had a big voice, so it wasn’t long until a condition of sort-of quiet existed. He held up the wine bottle he’d been drinking from. “Everyone fill your hands. I’m going to propose a toast.”