06x07 - Night of the Tarantula

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sh**t in an alley, smuggled emeralds.

Sounds like a plot straight out of Puccini.

Keep away from her! Tonight on m*rder, She Wrote.

If you ever again come near Maria, I will k*ll you.

If you had not tempted him That's not true.

If he dies, you k*lled him! The fact is, I'm being followed.

Really? I've no idea who they are.

I see the look on your face whenever he goes near Maria.

You don't know what you're talking about.

If she had found out about Maria, it would have crushed her.

Pills in pocket.

Faraday, he tried to k*ll me.

All right, folks, move back.

I got an ambulance coming in here.

Move back, move back.

Come on, move back.

Oh, Rosanno! The ambulance The ambulance is here! Rosanno.

No, no, no.

Sorry, ma'am, but I can't let you.

I'm his wife! Yes, ma'am, but I still can't.

Get out of my way! Rosanno! Teresa, we're going to the hospital.

Can we give you a ride? I told him no good would come of that g*n.

Would he listen? Silvana, you mustn't He is in there dying! No.

You heard the doctor.

He has a very good chance.

It's your fault.

If you had not tempted him That's not true.

Do you think I don't have eyes to see? If he dies, you k*lled him! Silvana! It is time to get down on your knees and pray, not make accusations.

Oh! Lieutenant Birnbaum, how is he? Not so good.

It's a coronary.

The next few hours are gonna be real dicey.

Okay, Mrs.

Fletcher, this is a real can of worms here.

I need straight answers.

From me? But Out there I got prima donnas, hysterics, egomaniacs.

You, on the other hand, seem reasonably calm and lucid.

So you're elected.

Well, where do you want me to start? Chapter 1.

Please, sit down.

And take your time.

My oldest daughter, who I thought I'd married off two years ago, just moved back in with a baby who gives new definition to the word "colic.

" I got all night.

Odd, you know, it seems like a week ago, but the truth is it really only started this morning.

I was here in San Francisco at the Bouchercon, that's a mystery writers' convention.

And I was just finishing up breakfast, when a waiter told me that I had an urgent phone call.

Thank you.

Hello.

This is Jessica Fletcher.

Of course, and I'm so delighted it is.

Well, thank you.

Who is this? What troubles me most is the frightening thought that you might have flitted in and out of this fair city without so much as a "How do you do?" To an old and dear friend.

Who is this? Oh, Jessica, you disappoint me.

I thought our former relationship, however fleeting, had deeper roots than this.

Incidentally, don't you think that's a dreadful picture of the mayor on the front page of the paper? Dennis! There I was, dear heart, in that wretched bus terminal, totally humiliated, being arrested for a theft I hadn't even committed.

Yes, but if you had gone to the police in the first place, you never would have found yourself in that position.

What, cooperate with the authorities? In those days, unheard of.

However, thanks to you, all that has now changed.

So you've been telling me.

On my honor, as a gentleman, respectability has me in its fiendish grasp.

Not only am I a salaried consultant to several major casualty companies, but I have even acquired a Social Security Number.

My heavens.

Can knighthood be far behind? Oh, scoff if you like, but I am treading a straight and narrow path and actually enjoying it.

By the way, what are your plans? And don't tell me you're leaving town.

Oh, this afternoon.

Wrong, dear heart.

I have plans for you.

What do you think about Puccini? Well, I I mean world-class Puccini.

Rosanno Bertolucci-type Puccini.

Bertolucci? Really? Oh, my.

Good, that's settled.

They open tonight.

Meanwhile, I think you should meet the great man in person.

Mrs.

Fletcher, what a privilege to meet you.

Thank you.

Dennis tells me you write books about people who have d*ed.

Well, no.

Not exactly.

Very morbid.

You should write about people full of life.

Like me.

Oh, yes.

Of course.

And how about this man? Opening night, sold out.

And the little children are going to get almost $200,000.

The little children? What little children? The little ones without homes.

Dennis didn't tell you? He is vice-chairman of the foundation that is sponsoring tonight's benefit.

I'm just a small cog in a very large wheel.

You see how modest he is? No, he is, how you say, a tower of strength.

Like Pisa, only not so bent over.

And the traffic was terrible.

It was noisy.

Ah, bellissima! Come, come.

We have company.

Oh.

You remember Dennis Stanton? Delighted to see you again, Signora Bertolucci.

And this is Mrs.

Fletcher from the state of Maine.

She writes books about dead people.

My wife Silvana, my aunt Teresa.

How nice to meet you.

How do you do? Did you see this? The wonderful Mr.

Bergmann, our monumental basso, tells the press he is the star of the show, that the great tenor Bertolucci has lost his voice.

No, no, cara mia, I'm sure he did not mean Oh, he also said that your precious protégé sings like a thin-voiced crow with none of the charm.

What? Mmm.

Maybe now you will have the impresario get rid of this egotistical mountain of lard, eh? How dare this man? Maria is a beautiful girl with a delicate voice of an angel.

Bergmann, this pompous, mediocre Rosanno, enough about that man.

Silvana, she buys you a nice jacket.

Here, try it on.

No, no, I don't I don't want to.

Please, for me.

It's very nice.

Oh, it is lovely, Signor Bertolucci.

Well, if you don't want it, I'll gladly take it off your hands.

No, no.

I'll try it on.

Um Excuse me, Rosanno, that nasty little bit of hardware tucked onto your belt This? Oh, sì.

A very good friend.

I'm not sure how familiar you are with American g*n laws, Signor Bertolucci, but you do need a permit to carry that around, you know.

Government officials telling us how to conduct our lives.

When I was a boy in Napoli, Mrs.

Fletcher, I learned that one takes care of one's self.

Are you saying that you are in some sort of danger? During our engagements in Hong Kong and Japan, just before we arrived here, a very unpleasant gentleman by the name of Faraday was loitering around our company.

At first, I thought he was only interested in pursuing the favors of our young soprano, Maria Deschler.

But I began to realize that he was also involved with some very unsavory-looking associates.

When I suggested he stay away, he threatened my life.

That's when I buy this g*n, which, incidentally, I know how to use.

Quite well, in fact.

Let me get this straight.

The guy was carrying an unlicensed piece, and he didn't care it was illegal? No, he didn't.

And these so-called associates of the victim, who were they? Well, he didn't say.

Look, if you could let me continue Sure.

Go on.

Thank you.

Well, Dennis Stanton picked me up at my hotel this evening.

We arrived at the opera house about an hour before curtain.

It was my first time backstage at an opera house, and believe me, it was a zoo.

Forget the party, Maria.

We'll drive down to Carmel.

There's a little inn overlooking the water.

I've already booked a room.

Oh, good.

Why don't you ask Veronica or Angelique? What do I have in common with chorus girls? You and I, our souls, they're like one.

That wasn't my soul you were grabbing at, Giorgio.

Barry, stop it.

What if Rosanno comes in? He'll rearrange that pretty face of yours.

He's a dirty old man.

He doesn't worry me.

He's the reason I'm working here.

You can write your articles for anybody you choose, but for me this is a break, and I am not going to screw it up.

Now, go.

This way.

One day soon I'm gonna have it out with that old man.

He chased Lou Faraday away, but he's not gonna chase me.

Go on.

Now.

I'll wait for you by that little café down the street.

Hmm? Okay.

We'll sneak out after the performance.

No, I have to go to the party.

Forget the party.

Mmm.

I'll be waiting.

Mr.

Stanton! I have just received some distressing news, sir.

Distressing.

We are to be reviewed this evening by a featherbrained nincompoop named Hannah Atterbury.

Well, I An illiterate scribbler who spent the first decade of her so-called career writing critiques for dinner theater.

May I Oh, my God, this is not her, is it? Oh, no.

I'm Jessica Fletcher.

I'm merely visiting.

Oh, good.

Well, you looked far too intelligent to be a critic.

Oh, thank you! I myself do not need the praise of the ill-informed or ill-equipped to feed my ego.

Away from her! Let go of me! You want me to k*ll you? What are you, Mr.

Faraday, some kind of animal? You don't tell me what to do, Bertolucci.

I warned you to keep away from her! Let go of me! If he tries to return, you call the police.

And if you ever again come near Maria, I will k*ll you.

Why? Because you want her for yourself? I mean what I say.

If you go near Maria again, you're a dead man.

Okay, so Bertolucci catches this guy Faraday, the victim, with the young soprano.

Yes, Maria Deschler.

And he tells the guy if he catches him near her again, he's gonna k*ll him.

That's what he said, k*ll him? Well, I think it was only a figure of speech.

You think? What are you, a mind reader? Lieutenant, would you like me to continue or not? Sure.

Go on.

Well, whatever problems the company may have been having backstage, they didn't affect the performance.

The production was brilliant, except for Maria.

Howard Bergmann was right, she obviously lacked experience.

Afterwards, Dennis and I went backstage to congratulate Rosanno and the rest of the cast.

Ah, Signora Bertolucci! Brilliant production! I was enchanted.

And your husband was in fine voice.

Oh, thank you.

He will be pleased.

Oh! Here he comes.

Maria! Maria! Maria! Maria! Maria.

Lou Faraday.

I tried to fight him off.

Are you all right? He's gone into the alley.

Call the police! Rosanno! Silvana, be careful! Pills in pocket.

Pocket Faraday, he tried to k*ll me.

He called my name, and I sh*t him.

Back there, I I saw him.

I saw him and I fired.

Did you hit him? Sure, I hit him.

What do you think? Take a look.

Dennis turned over the body, and it was Mr.

Faraday.

He'd been sh*t once in the chest.

And Bertolucci admitted f*ring the sh*t? Yes.

In self-defense.

I heard two sh*ts, Lieutenant.

So did everyone else.

Two sh*ts, very close together.

And they sounded different, as if fired from two different g*ns.

I finally had a word with the cardiologist.

As suspected, Rosanno had a severe heart att*ck.

His condition is serious.

Me, I hope he makes it.

I got loose ends only Bertolucci can tie up.

Oh? Such as? Well, for one thing, a couple of hours ago, Bertolucci threatens to k*ll this guy if he goes after his girlfriend, which the guy does.

Then, all of a sudden, the guy ends up stiff in an alley, and Bertolucci is trying to cop to self-defense.

Now, you, Mr.

Stanton, and you, Mrs.

Fletcher, you hear two sh*ts, which is very nice, except what I need is someone who actually saw Faraday take a potshot at Bertolucci.

Lieutenant, is there something that you're not telling us? You might say so.

A couple of minor inconsistencies.

Like, for example, the coroner's preliminary indicates that the victim was not standing when he was sh*t, but he was probably lying on his back.

And the g*n Faraday was supposed to have fired, guess what? We didn't find any g*n.

Not in his hand, not in the alley, not in the next county.

But that doesn't make any sense.

And finally, and now it will make sense.

We checked Bertolucci's p*stol and found not one spent cartridge, but two.

The guy's story is so full of hot air you could fly a balloon with it.

No.

I want to speak to my husband.

I'm sorry, Mrs.

Bertolucci.

He doesn't want to see you.

He insists on speaking to his aunt, Mrs.

Mancini.

I am his wife! There's nothing I can do.

Excuse me.

Silvana, it's going to be all right.

Sit with me.

Sit, please.

Doc, if he's well enough to talk, he's gonna talk to me.

Not now.

He's barely conscious, Lieutenant.

He insisted on speaking to his aunt.

He thinks he's dying.

Is he? Ask me in the morning.

Good morning, Lieutenant.

Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting your breakfast.

This you can interrupt anytime.

Please.

Thank you.

Dry toast, weak tea.

A year ago it would've been a bagel, cream cheese, maybe a little onion, nice piece of lox.

That was before my brother-in-law, Irving the dietician, came along.

Two years out of medical school, already he knows what's good for everybody.

Because he hates food, he thinks everybody should.

You want a bite? Oh, no, no, no, thank you.

I just I ate at the hotel.

Whatever you had, don't tell me.

So, Mrs.

Fletcher, what are you doing here? Maybe you remember something else from last night? Well, actually, yes.

I mean, a thought popped to mind.

It's been bothering me.

What happened to the windbreaker? Ma'am? Earlier in the evening, when he first came backstage, Mr.

Faraday was wearing a gray windbreaker over his sweater.

Now, when the body was found, the windbreaker was missing.

Since it was such a chilly evening, why wasn't he wearing it? Ma'am, I really wouldn't know.

Now, about the b*llet.

You said you thought that it was fired from an acute angle.

Almost 45 degrees.

Right into the heart.

Yeah, it must've happened something like that.

Let me tell you how I got it figured.

Bertolucci chases this guy Faraday down the alley, waving a g*n at him.

Faraday gets trapped, turns, stumbles, falls over.

While on his back, unarmed, Bertolucci rushes up, sh**t him, then fires another sh*t in the air, then rushes back to the head of the alley.

Where he what? Where he fakes a heart att*ck? No.

That was real enough.

Unexpected, maybe, but real.

The story about Faraday f*ring at him, that was phony.

Yes, well, it's an interesting speculation.

And I'm not about to bring it into court.

Not until I can beef it up.

The way I see it, only two people know what really happened in that alley, and they're not talking.

Bertolucci and his Aunt Teresa.

Teresa? After she came out of the hospital room last night, I pulled her aside.

I wanted to know what the guy told her.

Believe me, she was plenty shook up, whatever it was.

But she just kept shaking her head.

And you think he might have made some sort of confession.

Why not? Birnbaum.

Yeah, she's here.

Hang on.

Hello? Jessica, your hotel told me where to find you.

I haven't interrupted anything crucial, have I? Hardly.

The lieutenant and I have gotten exactly nowhere.

Very well.

Suppose I pitch in? Oh, no.

I couldn't ask you to Nonsense.

At the very least, you can use a chauffeur, and I'm fairly well acquainted with the ups and downs of the city.

Meet you at the opera house in half an hour.

I'll see you there.

Good Lord, I'm being tailed.

Fancy that.

Stop! Stop, stop! Must we be subjected to this? Mr.

Bergmann, please.

Mr.

Tortelli has been gracious enough to offer his services Services? Yes, that's precisely what we need here.

Services to inter this hapless and amateurish production! Okay, everybody, that's it for now.

Break for lunch.

Stay by.

I'm sorry, Mr.

Tortelli.

You were great.

But Mr.

Bergmann, he's a little temperamental.

Excuse me, Miss Deschler.

Oh, Mrs.

Fletcher.

How's Rosanno? We haven't heard a thing from the hospital.

Well, actually he's very much better.

In fact, the doctor told me he woke up about an hour ago, his vital signs are stable, and he was demanding food.

Well, that's wonderful.

Didn't I tell you? He has the constitution of a horse.

However, I doubt that he'll be back on the stage any time soon.

You know, Mr.

Bergmann was right about one thing.

Without a very strong tenor, this production can't go on.

Well, maybe that's all for the best.

The atmosphere around here has been, I don't know, tense.

Yes.

A couple of things bothered me, Maria, about last night.

Perhaps you could clear them up.

I'm puzzled how Mr.

Faraday got back into your dressing room.

I mean, we all saw Rosanno throw him out before the performance, and heard him order the stage doorman to keep him out.

That's old Crusty, Mrs.

Fletcher.

Once the singing starts, he plants himself in the wings to watch.

The Cuban Army could come through the door, and he'd never know it.

Oh, I see.

And what about the windbreaker? The what? Well, earlier in the day, Mr.

Faraday was wearing a gray windbreaker, but not when we found the body.

I guess he must have changed his clothes.

He wasn't wearing it when I found him waiting in my dressing room.

Yes, that was very foolhardy of him, particularly as Rosanno had threatened him.

Nobody ever said Faraday was smart.

Yes.

Well, Rosanno certainly didn't try to hide his jealousy.

Rosanno Bertolucci is now, and has always been, a friend.

Nothing more.

Will you excuse me? I wouldn't put too much stock in gossip, Mrs.

Fletcher.

Backstage at the theater is a lot like a small town.

People talk, but they don't always get their facts straight.

Jessica.

Oh, there you are.

I was afraid you'd got stuck in traffic.

Oh, dear, no.

Nothing so mundane.

The fact is, I'm being followed.

Really? Yes.

I've no idea who they are, but they're very funny.

They're so bad at it.

Well, dear heart, did you learn anything? Not much.

Except Rosanno seems to be recovering from his heart att*ck.

Which means, I suppose, that Lieutenant Birnbaum is over there questioning him.

Well, why don't I drop you off? I'd offer to join you, but just before I left home I had a call.

I have to go to Oakland to meet a ferrety little man, thoroughly unpleasant, but he may know the whereabouts of some missing securities.

Ridiculous.

You are ridiculous.

The man was not lying down when I sh*t him.

He was standing straight up at the end of the alley.

About 10 yards away, in the dark.

I did not measure the distance.

Also, Lieutenant, it was not possible for there to be two spent shells in my revolver.

I fired one time only.

Look, Mr.

Bertolucci, maybe you can steamroll these people who work for you.

Me, I'm not impressed.

I already got you for carrying a concealed w*apon.

What was Faraday wearing when you saw him going down the fire escape? I don't know.

I could not see him so clearly.

Last night, when you thought you were dying, you demanded to see this aunt of yours, privately.

So what did you tell her? That, Lieutenant, is none of your business.

Oh, Lieutenant.

Hello, Mrs.

Fletcher.

I understand that Rosanno is feeling much better.

He is.

I'm not.

He's sticking to his story.

And as far as what he told the aunt, he's got no comment.

Not to me, not to anybody.

Well, he may think he's above the law, but he's gonna be one surprised Italian salami when the DA slaps him with an indictment.

Lieutenant, excuse me, but something occurred to me.

A thought about what might have really happened in that alley.

Sounds fascinating.

I can hardly wait.

Well, now, suppose somebody else was waiting in that alley for Mr.

Faraday.

Suppose somebody else sh*t him and then sh*t at Rosanno and tried to make Rosanno think that it was Mr.

Faraday who had fired the sh*t.

Yeah.

You know what that sounds like? The plot of one of Bertolucci's operas.

Unbeknownst to Count Fettucini, the chambermaid was hiding in the flower pot disguised as a geranium.

All right, Lieutenant.

But what about the missing windbreaker? Maybe it was removed because it showed powder burns from a sh*t fired at close range, not 10 yards away.

And maybe those sh*ts sounded different because one of them was a blank.

Now, I realize that these are all theories, but Yes, Mrs.

Fletcher, that they are.

And thanks for passing them along.

I hope you enjoy the balance of your stay in San Francisco and have a safe trip back to Vermont.

Put your hands in the air and don't move.

Over there, on the couch.

How do you do? I'm Dennis Stanton.

I live here.

Don't believe I caught your name.

Dixon.

Special Agent Dixon.

And I have a few questions to ask you.

Agent Dixon.

He was a what? Customs agent.

Treasury agent.

Some sort of dreary government functionary.

For the past several months, he's been hot on the trail of some emeralds, which he thinks were smuggled into the country by way of the opera company.

When he saw my face and matched it to his files Yes.

Suddenly your past caught up with you? Ridiculous, of course.

I told him I'm a former thief, not a former smuggler.

Didn't seem to make much difference.

He sent me on a fool's errand to Oakland earlier, while he and his minions ransacked my apartment.

There are two of them outside now in a black sedan, waiting for me to lead them to my treasure trove.

Are you sure? I hadn't noticed.

Oh, yes.

Subtlety is not one of Agent Dixon's strong points.

They're also keeping an eagle eye on everyone connected with the opera company.

But so far it's only a tip.

I mean, they can't be sure about those emeralds.

Well, they haven't yet searched for them.

That would only alert the people involved.

I wonder if Lieutenant Birnbaum knows about the Federal involvement.

I didn't ask, and Agent Dixon didn't volunteer.

Giorgio Russo sing my roles? Absurd! He's a boy.

He's not ready.

Are you so sure? Giorgio may not have your reputation, but he has twice your voice.

Oh, really? Of course.

And you would admit it if you weren't so consumed with jealousy.

That is untrue.

Do you think I am blind? I see the look on your face whenever he goes near Maria.

It's not like that.

You don't know what you're talking about.

Don't I? Yes? Yes, Maria.

One moment.

Maria? What is it? Uh-huh.

Yes, I understand.

No.

I will take care of it.

Please, leave everything to me.

Silvana, I am very tired.

I would like to get some sleep.

Of course.

I am tired as well.

Well Pleasant dreams, my husband.

I know I will sleep well tonight.

Nothing is troubling my conscience.

Maria! Freeze! Sorry, Jessica.

No one gets to see Rosanno except his lawyer.

Maybe if I spoke to Lieutenant Birnbaum.

He doesn't want to talk to you, I'm afraid.

Oh, Dennis, this is absurd.

I mean, what was Rosanno doing there? What was Maria doing there? I ran into a friend on the force, someone I've worked with off and on over the past year or so.

Now, he says that the body in the courtyard is indeed young Barry Sanderson, the journalist.

Whether he jumped voluntarily or was pushed, and if so by whom, is something that is yet to be resolved.

And Maria? It seems that she and Sanderson have had a well-hidden romance going for past few weeks, ever since they met overseas.

It also seems that he is something more than a freelance journalist.

Agent Dixon was not chasing wild geese after all.

They discovered a dozen quality emeralds in his pocket.

Now, Dixon believes that Rosanno discovered he was being double-crossed, went to Sanderson's apartment, and threw him over the balcony.

No.

My nephew is not a k*ller.

And he is not a thief or a smuggler.

Rosanno is guilty of only one crime, the sin of being a devoted father.

Maria, she is Rosanno's daughter.

A lot of years ago, Rosanno had a romance with a singer named Anna Martinelli.

She got herself pregnant.

I mean, even if he had known, which he did not, there was nothing he could do about it.

Rosanno was married to Silvana, and even if they weren't Catholics, he wouldn't hurt her.

Now, just a moment.

You're saying that Rosanno didn't know that Anna was pregnant? He knew nothing about nothing.

Not until five months ago in London, when Maria showed up with a letter from her mama, who had just d*ed.

It was all in there, the whole story.

From her grave, Anna begged Rosanno to give Maria a chance to sing with the company.

Rosanno, he got a soft heart.

His own daughter, what was he going to do, turn her away? Of course, no one knew her real identity.

It must have seemed strange to the others, though.

Rosanno suddenly hiring this unknown girl of questionable ability.

Rosanno was the star.

What he wanted, he got.

And Silvana had no idea? Not even a hint? No.

They been married 30 years.

Thirty years, and she couldn't give him a baby.

If she had found out about Maria, oh, it would have crushed her.

You see now why I couldn't tell that policeman.

So, what am I to do? Sure, Rosanno's been hiding things, but he's not a thief, and he's not a k*ller.

Okay, Mrs.

Fletcher, that was nice work, getting the aunt to sing like that.

But you understand it's not doing much for Bertolucci's case.

But I just can't believe that Rosanno is guilty.

Well, you keep that thought, ma'am.

Maybe wishes do come true.

Oh, by the way, about that windbreaker.

We found it stuffed in the bottom of a garbage can about a block from the alley where the sh**ting took place.

With powder burns around the b*llet holes? You bet.

But if Bertolucci had sh*t him from 10 yards away, they never would have been there.

Bye, Mrs.

Fletcher.

Bye.

Take care of yourself.

Oh, dear.

Ah, Jessica, I recognize that look.

The solution has revealed itself.

Excellent.

Not so excellent.

I think I know the who, the why, and the how.

But the problem is, I'm not sure that I could prove it.

Really, Teresa, I'll I'll be fine.

No, you listen to me.

You been through too much.

You got to rest.

Yes.

Now I see it.

The resemblance.

No, no, it's all right, Maria.

I was able to visit Rosanno this morning.

He told me everything.

Poor child.

You have no reason to be afraid of me.

Now I think of you as As my own daughter.

Okay, listen, you two, you go ahead and talk.

I got to do some shopping.

I'll be back in a little while.

Oh, Silvana, you're so kind and gracious.

It's just that Rosanno and I didn't know how you were going to react.

Oh, how silly of you both.

Did you think I would be so vindictive that That I would blame you? Especially you, Maria, for an act of God? If so, you would have been right.

Are you crazy? By your very existence you bring shame upon me.

You, the fruit of my husband's loins, while I I have been barren for 30 years.

You dishonored me! For God's sakes.

No, please, don't! You can't get away with it.

Someone's gonna hear the sh*t! Do you think I care? I would be happy to rot in a prison cell or choke on the gas fumes than to live in a world with you, my husband's bastard daughter! I'm not! It's a lie! That letter was a forgery.

When I saw in the paper that Anna Martinelli had d*ed, I just made it all up.

I knew Rosanno wouldn't refuse me.

I don't believe you.

It's true, I swear! I had to get into the company.

My boyfriend, Lou Faraday, he made me do it.

You talk crazy! Why would he do that? Because of the emeralds.

We had to get the emeralds into the country.

For God's sakes, don't sh**t me! Mrs.

Fletcher! Lieutenant.

Gotta hand it to you, Mrs.

Fletcher.

I figured you were nuts.

Oh, Lieutenant, how gracious of you.

What I mean is, this whole case has been a barrel of snakes from day one.

Opera singers, sh**t in an alley, smuggled emeralds, fake suicides, illegitimate children.

Sounds like a plot straight out of Puccini, and I hate Puccini.

Well, Lieutenant, I must admit that things were getting more and more bizarre.

I was starting to have trouble keeping track of who's who.

In fact, I'm still not quite sure that I've got everything straight.

Okay, the smuggling.

Maria was in on that little caper up to her high C's.

She and Lou Faraday were a hot item in Europe.

He needed a cover to get the emeralds into the country.

The opera seemed like a natural.

By the way, the Feds found the gems in the false bottoms of a couple of steamer trunks.

They figured the value around seven mil.

Oh! I'm delighted we weren't involved in anything penny ante.

And what about the journalist, Barry Sanderson? I mean, how did he fit in? He was a dupe.

Maria used him just like she used Bertolucci.

Listen for yourself.

The lady tells an interesting story.

I knew where the emeralds were.

I just hadn't had a chance to get to them.

Lou Faraday called me twice, but I was ducking him.

I already knew I wasn't going to split them with him.

Why should I? I'd taken all the chances, not him.

He got backstage into my dressing room, and he said that if I double-crossed him, he'd k*ll me.

I told him I was just being careful, that I was still crazy about him.

That jerk.

He believed anything I told him.

But I knew I had to get rid of him.

I told him I'd meet him in the alley during Act 3, when everybody else would be busy, but just then I told you to stay away from her! Do you want me to k*ll you? What are you, Mr.

Faraday, some kind of animal? You don't tell me what to do, Bertolucci! And that's when it came to me.

I could get rid of Lou and have Rosanno take the blame for it.

It wasn't hard to get Rosanno's g*n.

Everybody knew where he kept it.

Are you okay? What's the big idea Are you okay? with the old man? You just shut up! When I got into the alley, Lou was in a vicious mood.

The sh*t left powder burns on his jacket, so I had to get rid of it, or it wouldn't fit the scenario I'd already worked out.

It wasn't hard to get back into my dressing room without being seen.

I guess nobody heard the sh*t, or they didn't pay much attention, not in that neighborhood.

I called Barry at this little café around the corner.

I told him I was in trouble, that if he really loved me, he'd help me.

He told me he'd do anything.

After the performance, he waited on the fire escape for my scream.

When Rosanno looked out the window, he thought he was seeing Lou Faraday.

Is that it, Mrs.

Fletcher? Is it over with? Have we finally got the whole story? Oh, yes.

I mean, I think so.

Well, Mr.

Faraday was k*lled so that Maria wouldn't have to split the loot, and Mr.

Sanderson was k*lled to keep him quiet.

He was the only link to Maria.

Poor fellow.

He was doomed to die from the beginning.

Of course, Maria had to make it look as if Rosanno had k*lled Mr.

Sanderson, which is why she lured Rosanno from his hospital bed.

Obviously, she'd already popped him over the head and pushed him over the ledge before Rosanno arrived.

Yes, and then messed up the room to make it look as if there'd been a struggle.

Stop.

Enough.

Next you'll have a tenor jumping out of a closet in a clown suit, claiming he k*lled everybody because his identical twin brother ran off with Desdemona to get a haircut in Seville.

Look, do me a favor, go! Forget m*rder, forget mayhem.

Enjoy a nice dinner.

Most of all, forget me.

I'm really concerned about that lieutenant.

A first-rate psychiatrist would have a field day with him.

Well, actually, I think that he's suffering from a bad case of culture shock.

Jessica, now that I have you alone, there's something that has been bothering me all day.

The trap you set for Maria was lovely, but at the risk of seeming appallingly ignorant, how did you know she was the guilty party? She had to be.

Backstage, when I asked her if Lou Faraday was wearing the windbreaker when he att*cked her, she said no.

She had to say no, because she was forced to remove it because of the powder burns.

So later, of course, when the police discovered the jacket with the powder burns, obviously she had been lying.

Fascinating.

Oh, well.

Now, dear heart, I don't know about you, but I think the lieutenant made an excellent suggestion.

If you're in the mood for Chinese, I know this little cafe on Fremont Street where they serve an absolutely fabulous Szechuan beef.