“I wonder…,” Smith started to say.

Pawkins finished his thought. “Wondering if she was killed here and moved upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“A good possibility,” Pawkins said.

Mac’s eyes followed a route from the stain to the nearest exit into the wings. “No blood aside from the stain,” he said, “no trail.”

“I might have an answer for that,” Pawkins said. He waved over a uniformed officer, pointed out the stain to him, and suggested he inform Detective Berry of it.

“Drink?” Mac asked Pawkins as they rejoined Annabel and left the Kennedy Center ’s air-conditioned coolness. It was an oppressively humid night.

“Love it,” the retired detective replied, “as long as food accompanies it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I’ve lost any appetite I might have had,” Annabel said as they agreed to meet in fifteen minutes at the bar on the lobby level of the Watergate Hotel, decidedly more quiet and conducive to serious conversation than the 600 Restaurant.

Pawkins’ laugh was rueful. “The only thing that sets my stomach on edge is a bad performance of a favorite opera. I’ve seen and, worse, heard a few of those, and the thought of food is anathema then. A nice, clean homicide? As effective an aperitif as there ever was.”

The sedate Watergate lobby bar and lounge were sparsely populated when Mac and Annabel arrived. They’d said nothing to each other during the short ride from the Kennedy Center, each immersed in thought. But once seated at a secluded table, they gave voice to those thoughts.

“What a shock,” Annabel said.

“At best,” Mac said. “We should have asked your friend Genevieve to join us. She looked like she needed a drink. Maybe a number of them.”

“Too late now. Oh, there’s Mr. Pawkins.”

Pawkins slid into a chair. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said, indicating the lack of glasses on the table. That was immediately rectified when a waitress approached and took their order, a snifter of Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon for Mac, club soda with lime for Annabel, and a Dubonnet cocktail for Pawkins, along with a request for the bar menu.

Their drinks served, Pawkins pushed back his chair, folded one long leg over the other, and sipped. “Nice,” he said. He raised his glass. “Good to see you again, Mac, and to meet you, Mrs. Smith.”

“Please, it’s Annabel,” she said, returning the toast halfheartedly.

“Did you know the young lady?” Pawkins asked, his eyes focused on the menu he’d been handed.

“Ms. Lee?” Annabel replied. “Not really. Sorry, that isn’t much of an answer. I’ve been to events sponsored by the opera at which members of the Young Artist Program performed.” Her eyes misted. “I saw her a few months ago at a recital at the Renwick Gallery. She sang Michaela from Carmen, the young country girl. It was-it was lovely.”

“Never had the pleasure,” said Pawkins. “Obviously, I never will.”

Annabel managed a smile. “I remember being impressed at her size. That such a big, magnificent voice could come from such a tiny package was remarkable.”

Pawkins’ smile was expansive. “They say that whenever you have a tenor who is heavier than the soprano, the opera will succeed. Yes, Ms. Lee seems-seemed-quite small-boned for an opera singer. Then again, more and more directors are trying these days to match the visual with the role.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t long ago that Deborah Voight-she’s probably the preeminent Ariadne in the world-had her contract to perform in Ariadne Auf Naxos at Covent Garden canceled because the director wanted her dressed in a skimpy black cocktail dress. Well, Deborah, being a large lady, was hardly the black cocktail dress type. She refused. The cancellation created a worldwide scandal in the opera world. I suppose it worked out for her, though. She went on a diet, lost about a hundred-and-fifty pounds, and is singing better than ever. Ms. Lee’s small stature would have been to her benefit-provided, of course, that the voice matched her physical beauty.”

“No question that she was murdered?” Mac asked.

“Oh, no. Stabbed in the chest. I imagine the blade went directly into her heart.”

Pawkins ordered onion soup and a shrimp cocktail, to be served in that order. Sirens could be heard from outside.

“Ironic,” Mac said to Pawkins, “that you happened to be there tonight.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Interesting that you found what appears to be a bloodstain on the deck. We call it a deck in opera because-”

“Stagehands used to be sailors,” Mac said.

Pawkins smiled.

“That’s the extent of my knowledge, thanks to you,” Mac said. “Oh, I do know that we’re supers, not extras.”

“Exactly,” the lanky man said, refolding his long legs. “About the stain. You wondered why there wasn’t a trail of blood from that spot to where the body was found, assuming, of course, that she was, in fact, murdered on the deck.”

Mac and Annabel waited for the explanation.

“Whoever killed Ms. Lee was very proficient.”

“A proficient killer,” Annabel said. “Professional?”

Pawkins shrugged as his soup was set before him. “That’s impossible to say at this juncture. What’s certain is that the murderer acted swiftly. Ms. Lee was obviously stabbed by something, a knife, scissors, any sharp instrument.” He paused. “Maybe a spear. There are always plenty of those backstage at an opera. At any rate, her assailant evidently-and I hasten to say that this is based purely on a cursory look I had at the wound-plunged the weapon into her chest, immediately withdrew it, and in an instant shoved some sort of material into the wound, which stemmed the flow of blood, at least long enough to move the body elsewhere without dripping a trail behind.”

“Grotesque,” Annabel commented.

“It sounds as though it was well planned,” Mac said. “Premeditated.”

“A reasonable assumption,” said Pawkins, taking a spoonful of soup between thoughts.

Annabel’s cell phone rang. She quickly answered, glancing about to see whether it had disturbed anyone. The adjacent tables were empty.

“Hello?” she said. “No, I’m here at the Watergate bar with my husband. Now? A half hour? Of course. I’ll be there.”

She clicked the phone closed and returned it to her purse.

“What’s up?” Mac asked.

“That was Camile Worthington.” To Pawkins: “She’s chairman of the Opera board’s executive committee.”

“I’ve met her.”

“They’re holding an emergency meeting in a half hour.”

“They work fast,” Mac said.

“I hate to run, but I have to,” she said, standing and extending her hand. “It was good meeting you. Mac often talks about how good a detective you were.”

Pawkins stood and accepted her hand. “Knowing I might be cross-examined by your husband kept me on my toes. Good night.”

Pawkins’ second course arrived and he offered Mac a shrimp.

“Thanks,” Mac said, dipping it into the sauce. “So, tell me, Raymond, what you’ve been up to since retirement. I assume being a super in an occasional opera doesn’t take up all your time.”

“I wish it could,” he said. “I love it. When I’m not in costume, which is most of the time, I keep quite busy. I’ve been collecting recordings of great opera performances for years now. I must have five hundred or so, all neatly cataloged. I’ve been doing some writing about opera for minor magazines. I still have my four feline friends, although I don’t think one of them has much longer to go. And I haven’t given up working completely. I have my PI license for D.C. and catch an occasional case, usually involving something musical-stolen instruments or valuable scores-or art. Amazing how hot the stolen art market is, Mac, and how stupid those who steal it can be.” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and sat back. “You now have my life story,” he said. “What’s yours since we last met?”