Free Bantam of the Opera by Mary Daheim

property.
    Fortunately, Joe had put the lawn furniture indoors before leaving for New Orleans. Unfortunately, he had never got around to raking up the leaves. Judith watched more of them drift down from the maples and the hawthorns and the mountain ash. Maybe Dooley would do it for her—if she paid him enough.
    After many mental gymnastics, Judith had decided on wearing a taupe high-necked silk jacquard blouse with a straight black flannel skirt under a black and taupe tiger-print jacket. Renie, she knew, was going with draped red wool crepe. Judith preened in front of the long mirror in her bedroom, wondering what Joe was doing about now. It was ten o’clock in New Orleans. Maybe he and Bill had retired to their hotel room. Bill Jones liked to keep strict hours; Joe Flynn wasn’t acquainted with the concept. Judith wondered who would win the war of wills.
    Heading downstairs, Judith paused on the landing between the first and second floors. She thought she heard a noise from somewhere in the vicinity of the guest bedrooms, but decided it was only the wind, making the old house creak. Since none of her guests had been at HillsideManor when she returned from the airport, she had not shown them the piece of paper that had been slipped under the welcome mat. It was probably just as well, she reasoned, for if Bill Jones was right, perhaps only mischief was intended. There was certainly no reason to upset Mario Pacetti further just before a performance.
    As promised, Woody Price had sent a squad car by at regular intervals. About 3:00 P . M ., Officers Perez and Doyle had stopped to collect the rock and the sheet of paper. Corazon Perez and Ted Doyle had both looked curiously at Judith when she’d asked them to get a musical expert to identify the five notes at the bottom of the page. But this was Lieutenant Flynn’s wife, they were following Woody Price’s instructions, and they might as well humor her. Still, Judith knew they thought it was a joke. She hoped they were right.
    Nonetheless, Judith checked the front porch again. It was pristinely devoid of threatening missives. The corn tassels stirred in the wind. Going back into the house, she settled onto one of the matching sofas and waited for Renie.
    In the corner, the grandfather clock ticked on toward 7:00 P . M . The curtain was at seven-thirty, but Renie said Maestro Dunkowitz never started until at least seven thirty-seven. The rain continued to spatter the window-panes. Judith glanced around the big, comfortable living room—the baby grand piano, the tall, crammed bookcases that flanked the window seat, the fireplace mantel with its array of family photos: Gertrude and Donald Grover holding hands in the early years of their marriage; Grandpa and Grandma Grover, cutting the tiered cake for their fiftieth anniversary; Bill and Renie posing in front of a Reno pawnshop; Mike as a baby; Mike on his first day of kindergarten; Mike in his high school graduation picture; Mike with Kristin by the Christmas tree; and the latest addition to the collection, Judith and Joe cheek to cheek next to the carved wooden doors of Our Lady, Star of the Sea. There was a picture of Dan McMonigle, tucked behindUncle Vince and Auntie Vance sitting on the deck of their beach house. Judith had considered taking it down when she married Joe Flynn. But that wouldn’t have been fair to Mike. Dan had been Mike’s father—at least as far as Mike was concerned. Judith got up to scrutinize the most recent picture of Mike. The red hair was darker—and much thicker—than Joe’s. Otherwise, the resemblance was unremarkable. Mike’s features were the spitting image of his grandfather, Donald Grover. And, by coincidence, Dan’s mother was a redhead. Joe and Judith had agreed there was no need to tell Mike the truth about his parentage. At least not yet.
    Judith ambled over to the bay window, the three large panes displaying black silhouettes of a cat,