Saks & Violins

by Mary Daheim

  Judith managed to put the latch back in place, but was chary of touching anything else. Had someone tried to break into the basement? It was possible. The screen was easily removed from the outside. There was just enough space for a reasonably slim person to squeeze through the opening.

  But why? When?

  And who?

  ELEVEN

  JUDITH REALIZED SHE could be wrong. If she hadn’t quite managed to latch the window securely in the first place, the wind might have blown it open. Sweetums could have done it.

  But those splinters indicated human effort. She studied the basement with the eye of an inventory taker. The only value of the stored items was sentimental, especially the Christmas decorations that included a few surviving ornaments from Grandpa and Grandma Grover’s tree. There were Joe’s tools, of course, but he owned nothing expensive. The fishing tackle appeared untouched. So did the boxes that Mike had left behind, promising to move them out when he had more room. Judith knew that meant the boxes and cartons would grow roots before they ever left the basement.

  The cartons that held old clothes were still there, along with the stack of empty gift boxes, the ironing board, the outmoded phonograph, and various other discards that Judith had never had the heart to toss out or give away. Nothing looked different or seemed to be missing.

  Yet Judith was uneasy as she went back upstairs. Could someone have broken into the house the night of Dolph’s murder? Could that same someone have come into the kitchen and taken Renie’s credit cards? It didn’t make much sense.

  Judith was still mulling when she heard Phyliss admit Rosemary O’Grady.

  “Where’s your partner?” Judith asked as she met Rosemary in the entry hall.

  “He had a doctor’s appointment at eleven-thirty,” Rosemary replied. “His allergies are really terrible. His doctor has a new kind of medication he wants Levi to try.”

  “I hope it works,” Judith said. “Come into the living room and meet Gregory.”

  Rosemary held back. “Kluger’s son?” she whispered.

  “Allegedly,” Judith said.

  Gregory was still on the sofa, thumbing through one of the magazines Judith put on the coffee table for the guests’ perusal. He didn’t look up when the two women entered the room.

  “Pears,” he said, staring at a photo of fruit in a copy of Gourmet magazine. “I’d like a pear. Separation foods—that’s the secret.”

  Judith ignored the remark. “Gregory, this is Rosemary O’Grady. She’s a police detective, assigned to the investigation of Mr. Kluger’s death. She’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “We both would,” Rosemary said in her perky voice. “Won’t you join me, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “Ah…” Judith saw that Gregory was vehemently shaking his head.

  “I’ve already answered her questions,” Gregory said, finally looking up. “I’ve nothing more to say.” He leaned forward as Rosemary sat down on the opposite sofa. The magazine slid off his lap and onto the floor.

  Rosemary’s expression was apologetic when she spoke to Judith. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the room, Mrs. Flynn.” The detective turned just enough so that Gregory couldn’t see her wink.

  “Of course,” Judith agreed.

  She went as far as the entry hall, plastering herself against the wall that concealed the pocket doors Judith rarely used.

  “May I see some ID, please?” Rosemary requested.

  “I lost it.” The statement was flat, as if it had come from a robot.

  “You have no ID?” Rosemary said, slightly incredulous.

  “None.”

  “When did you lose it?”

  “Yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe earlier.”

  “Do you drive a car?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “No.”

  The chipper note in Rosemary’s voice was fading. “Do you have a Social Security number?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t remember. I’m not good at numbers.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gregory…Kluger.”

  “What’s your address?”

  Gregory rattled off the name and number of an apartment house near the University.

  “How did you get to Hillside Manor?”

  “I took a bus. The bus stops a block and a half away, on Heraldsgate Avenue.”

  “Do you work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At the University.” Gregory’s voice was showing signs of impatience. “I’m in music.”

  Judith heard Rosemary sigh. “Why did you come here?”

  “To find out what happened to my father, Dolph Kluger. Isn’t that why you’re here, too?”

  “Yes.” Rosemary cleared her throat. “My partner and I are assigned to the case. When did you last see your…Mr. Kluger?”

  There was a pause, apparently while Gregory calculated. “About a year ago. He had a layover on his way to Hong Kong.”

  “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Ah…what’s today? Friday? It must have been Monday. Or…Sunday. He called to tell me his plans. That’s when we arranged to have lunch.”

  Judith shifted her weight, trying to take the strain off of her artificial hip. She thought Gregory was speaking more freely, even exhibiting some animation.

  “How did…your father sound?” the detective asked.

  “Sound? You mean…his manner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like he always does. Jovial. Enthusiastic. Eager to see and hear his protégés.”

  There was another pause. When Rosemary finally spoke, her tone was faintly harsh. “He had no enemies?”

  “Enemies?” Gregory sounded shocked. “Of course not. Naturally there are rivalries and jealousies in the music world. But enemies? No.”

  “The fact remains,” Rosemary said, “someone wanted to kill him. I’m sure you want to learn who did it. If you don’t know of any professional enemies, what about his personal life?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is Andrea Kluger your mother?”

  “Andrea?” Gregory’s reaction struck Judith as incredulous. “Of course not.”

  “Then who is your mother?”

  “She’s dead. She died long ago.” Gregory’s voice had a catch in it. “Please. I don’t wish to talk about it. Go away now. I’m tired and in pain. I want a pear.”

  Footsteps on the stairs caught Judith’s attention. She saw two sturdy legs and sensible shoes beneath a gray woolen skirt. Estelle Pearson was descending in a purposeful manner.

  “Madam would like some vanilla pudding,” the maid announced upon reaching the main floor. “Tea to accompany it. Irish Breakfast is her favorite.”

  “I only have English Breakfast tea,” Judith said. “I think I have some pudding, though.”

  “Only English? That won’t do.” Estelle looked at Judith as if she might not be quite civilized.

  “There’s a Trader Tim’s four blocks from here,” Judith said. “They carry a variety of teas.”

  “But you don’t?”

  Judith’s response was cut short by Rosemary’s appearance in the entry hall. “He’s being difficult,” she said with a grim expression.

  “No kidding,” Judith murmured.

  Estelle glanced curiously at both Judith and Rosemary. “Who’s difficult?”

  Rosemary hesitated.

  Judith didn’t. “Dolph’s son, Gregory. He’s in the living room.”

  Estelle rocked slightly on her heels and blinked several times. “Dolph’s son?” she finally said. “Ridiculous!” She folded her arms across her sizable bust. “Give me the directions to this Trader Tim’s. I’ll go get the tea. And the pudding. I know what she likes.”

  Rosemary intervened. “Excuse me. Who are you?”

  The maid identified herself. “I arrived only a short while ago,” she add
ed. “I know nothing about what’s happened except what Madam and her daughter have told me.” She turned to Judith. “Where is this shop?”

  Judith picked up a neighborhood map she kept by the guest registry. “We’re here. Go to Heraldsgate Avenue and up the hill until you reach—”

  “Pears,” called a pitiful voice from the living room. “Pears, please.”

  Judith quickly finished the brief directions. “And would you mind getting some fresh pears? I’ll give you the money.”

  “Of course you will,” Estelle said.

  Going into the kitchen to get her wallet, Judith shook her head and muttered to herself. “Difficult is right. They’re all difficult. Or crazy. Now they’ve got me talking to myself.”

  When she returned to the entry hall a few moments later, Rosemary apparently had been quizzing a taciturn Estelle.

  “I told you,” the maid insisted, “I know nothing.” Ungraciously, she accepted a twenty-dollar bill from Judith and left the house without another word.

  Rosemary seemed irritated. “I’m beginning to think I don’t have your knack for interviewing people. I couldn’t even get this Estelle person to take a look at Gregory.”

  Judith sighed. “I’m not doing much better. I swear, just about everybody connected to this investigation is impossible to deal with. They’re beyond snooty. They’re utterly self-absorbed. They’re—” She stopped, and frowned. “They’re afraid.”

  Rosemary’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” Judith had been backpedaling slowly into the dining room, out of earshot from Gregory or anyone else that might come into the entry hall. “From the start, they’ve all been…well, on the defensive. It’s hard to describe, but I’ve dealt with enough different personalities to understand why people behave the way they do.” She made a face. “I don’t mean to sound pompous.”

  “No, no,” Rosemary said vehemently. “You’re not. I admire your people skills. Don’t quit now.”

  Judith shrugged. “The only person involved who didn’t act uptight or edgy is Dolph. Oh—and Fritz Wittener seemed normal, at least for a young man his age.”

  “We interviewed Fritz, as well as his mother, Elsa,” Rosemary said. “She was very closemouthed, but he was okay, except for the usual reticence of his peer group.” She smiled diffidently. “I should know. I’m not much older than Fritz. Guys don’t talk much about feelings.”

  “They still don’t when they get older,” Judith noted. “By the way, this may sound crazy, but I have to tell you about our basement window. Let’s go downstairs.”

  Rosemary carefully studied the marred windowsill. “You have no idea how long the window had been open?” she asked.

  “No. If it wasn’t latched properly—and I’ll admit, it’s hard for me to reach—the wind or the cat or even the house settling could have jarred it open. You know how it is around here—buildings—not just old ones—occasionally shift because of all the earthquakes.”

  “I can check for prints,” Rosemary said. “Did you look outside?”

  “I haven’t had a chance,” Judith admitted.

  The two women went back up the stairs and outside. There was a strip of grass and a narrow flower bed between the driveway and the house. Most of Judith’s rosebushes were planted in that area, along with some ground cover and several wallflowers that had sprung up from seed. The topsoil was damp from the occasional drizzle during the past week. Judith couldn’t see any footprints, however.

  “My husband’s been doing yard cleanup,” she said, “but he hasn’t pruned the roses.” She pointed to a deep red Abraham Lincoln bush that was still blooming. “It’s too soon. We shouldn’t have frost until November.”

  Rosemary was studying the distance between the window and the grass. “This flower bed’s about three feet across, maybe a little more. A full-grown adult could lie on the ground between the grass and the house without leaving footprints. Once he—or she—had forced the latch, the person could scoot between the rosebushes. In fact, it’d be safer that way under any conditions. They’d avoid the thorns.”

  “True,” Judith allowed, scanning the dirt for any sort of clue. “In a book or on TV, something would be left behind. A button, a thread, a hair—some item the crime lab could use. Unfortunately, I don’t see anything suspicious.”

  Rosemary murmured agreement.

  Judith paced along the driveway. “Nothing appears to have been stolen or even disturbed. Except, of course, my cousin’s credit cards.”

  Rosemary nodded as they headed back inside. “It’s too bad the store clerk couldn’t identify the person who used Mrs. Jones’s debit card. There’s been no report of anyone attempting to use the other credit cards,” she added, following Judith up the porch steps.

  Judith opened the screen door. “My cousin told me they were maxed out.”

  “That doesn’t mean someone didn’t try to charge on them,” Rosemary said. “The problem is, we wouldn’t know unless the merchant became suspicious.”

  “Or knew Renie personally,” Judith murmured as they entered the kitchen. “What’s your next move?”

  Rosemary glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to meet Levi at Moonbeam’s around one. I’d like to have him talk to Gregory. Maybe he’ll have better luck.”

  “Dubious,” Judith remarked. “So I’m in charge of this lame duck?”

  “You can handle him,” Rosemary said, heading out of the kitchen. “Let’s hope Levi got some new allergy medicine. He’s totally miserable.”

  Accompanying Rosemary to the front door, Judith heard voices in the living room.

  “You got no spunk,” Gertrude was saying. “What’s this crazy diet you’re on? I’ve never dieted in my life and look at me.”

  “I am looking at you,” Gregory replied. “You’re very old and very crippled.”

  “Up yours, young fella,” Gertrude snapped. “Forget the crippled part. I’m getting around better right now than you are. And how do you think I got to be this old? By eating a bunch of sludge?”

  “It’s not sludge,” Gregory said heatedly. “You don’t understand how Trennkost works.”

  “Bunk,” said Gertrude.

  Rosemary was looking at Judith in a curious manner. “Who is that?” she whispered.

  “My mother. It’s past her lunchtime. She must have come in the house looking for me. She can drive her motorized wheelchair up the back-porch ramp. We couldn’t see her from the side of the house.”

  “Very convenient for your mother,” Rosemary said in an indifferent tone. “I’m going now.”

  “Okay,” Judith said, sensing a change in Rosemary’s attitude, but unsure of the reason. “You don’t need to hear Mother arguing with my latest intrusion.”

  Gertrude had positioned her wheelchair between the sofa and the coffee table. She turned her head when she heard Judith come in.

  “Well, dopey,” the old lady said to her daughter, “are you trying to starve me? Do you know what time it is, or have you forgotten where the big hand goes and the little one follows?”

  “Actually,” Gregory put in, “it’s the other way…”

  Gertrude waved him into silence. “Shut your yap. I’m talking to my idiot child here. I don’t need another nitwit barging in. What do you think this is? A Dumbbell Convention?”

  Judith interrupted. “I’ll fix your lunch right now, Mother. Tuna?”

  “Put some pickle relish in it,” Gertrude ordered. “And don’t spare the mayonnaise. Butter, white bread, lettuce…”

  “I know, Mother,” Judith said grimly. “I’ve been making your tuna sandwiches for almost fifteen years.”

  “No wonder they taste so stale,” Gertrude rasped. “You’re still feeding me those old ones. Don’t forget the chips and dill pickle. Get going.” The old lady turned back to Gregory. “So what’s this bo-diddly thing all about? I know what a diddly bow is—my papa had a guitar he made out of a cigar box.”

  Judith stopped before she got to
the entry hall.

  “I didn’t say diddly,” Gregory asserted.

  “You sure didn’t,” Gertrude snapped. “You don’t say much. You’re kind of screwy, aren’t you?”

  Moving back into the living room, Judith gazed at her mother. “I never knew Grandpa Hoffman was musical. Did he have talent?”

  “Couldn’t play for sour owl sweat,” Gertrude declared. “Tin ear. He played the paper comb, too, until he swallowed the paper and darned near choked to death.”

  Gregory had turned pale. “Good Lord!”

  “Which reminds me,” Gertrude said to her daughter, “I need a Bozo horn.”

  “For what?” Judith asked, surprised at the request.

  Gertrude tapped the side of her wheelchair. “To put on Cora here,” she said, using the nickname she’d given her apparatus. “How else can I get your attention? By Western Union? Besides,” she went on with a fiendish grin at Gregory, “maybe I could play a few tunes on it, like Beethover.”

  “Beethoven!” Gregory cried. “My God!” He put his hands over his face.

  Gertrude chuckled. “Kind of dingy, isn’t he? Wasn’t there a singer way back called Bo Diddley?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Judith said. “He was a rock-and-roll pioneer.” She leaned over the back of the sofa. “What kind of bow are you talking about?”

  The young man, who was still visibly upset, turned his head slightly. “My inheritance,” he said in a low voice. “The Tourte bow that was stolen from me by…someone.”

  “Would that ‘someone’ be Rudi Wittener?” Judith asked.

  Whatever color was left in Gregory’s face completely drained away. He began to tremble. “You know?” he whispered.

  “Um…yes,” Judith said, wondering whether or not she did. “You were to inherit this bow from your father?”

  He nodded. “My father knew Fritz Kreisler, who gave him that bow. It’s become a family heirloom.”