Saks & Violins

by Mary Daheim

Gertrude rammed the sofa with her wheelchair. “My lunch is becoming a family heirloom. I’m a family heirloom. Get hopping, kiddo.”

  Judith smiled at Gregory. “I’d like to hear more about this fascinating bow,” she said. “I’ll be back after I’ve taken care of Mother.”

  “That sounds like a threat,” Gertrude said, propelling herself after Judith. “’Course, around here, anything could happen.”

  Judith had just finished taking Gertrude and her lunch tray out to the toolshed when the phone rang. It was Renie.

  “Lunch was great,” she announced, “if short. Melissa had to get back for a phone interview with a tenor who’s coming here to sing the role of Cavaradossi in Tosca. She ordered the Caesar with prawns. I had the salmon. And chowder. With their delicious fries. Oh, I started with the crab wonton—to die for. Yum.”

  “What about Dolph Kluger?” Judith asked, impatient with Renie’s plundering of Benji’s menu.

  There was a pause. Judith wondered if Renie was still picking luncheon remains out of her teeth.

  “Believe it or not,” Renie finally said, “he was quite a womanizer—at least until he married Andrea. So it’s possible that Gregory really is Dolph’s son. Melissa told me she’d never heard of Gregory, but she’d check him out through the University’s music department.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Except for dessert,” Renie said. “We skipped it.”

  “Bravo,” Judith responded sarcastically. “It’s a good thing you don’t have much of a sweet tooth. By the way, when you talk to Melissa again, ask her how much a rare Tourte violin bow owned by Fritz Kreisler would be worth. According to Gregory, Dolph had one and gave it to Rudi—or Rudi stole it, and now it’s missing. But Gregory was supposed to—and I quote—‘inherit’ it.”

  “Really?” Renie sounded surprised. “Oddly enough, we got off on that same subject. Melissa knows a local big-time collector of musical instruments. Fascinating man. Anyway, she mentioned something about a Tourte bow and said it’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-grand item.”

  “Wow!” Judith exclaimed. “That sounds incredible for just a bow! What’s a violin like a Stradivarius worth?”

  “Plenty. But we didn’t get into specifics about violins. That’s when we had to decide about dessert.”

  “That type of bow’s certainly worth stealing,” Judith said. “I doubt that Rudi would’ve stolen it from Dolph, though. It’s more likely that Dolph gave it to him. Or sold it.”

  “Symphony violinists make good money,” Renie pointed out, “but not the kind that would put them in a six-figure category for collecting.”

  “But now somebody’s stolen the bow from Rudi,” Judith reminded her cousin.

  “Right. How do you fence a bow?”

  “The same way you fence artwork?” Judith suggested. “Secretly, to wealthy collectors?”

  “Yes, that makes sense. Hey—got to go, coz,” Renie said. “I’ve got a call on the other line. I think it’s Saks dunning me again. I’m going to tell them I’m legally dead.” She rang off.

  Judith was thoughtful as she placed the receiver on the kitchen counter. If a violin bow was worth stealing, was it also worth killing for? She’d been involved in homicide cases where people had died for less.

  Anger suddenly overcame Judith. Money, love, greed, lust, revenge—nothing was worth killing for as far as she was concerned. As she stood in the kitchen with its homely smells of tuna fish and coffee, there was a killer on the loose, perhaps under her own roof. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She ought to be used to it, Judith told herself and tried to relax.

  That was when all hell broke out in the living room.

  TWELVE

  SUZANNE WAS SCREAMING at Gregory. Gregory was screaming right back at her.

  “Impostor! Stalker! Lunatic!” Suzanne shouted.

  “Liar! Cheat! Leech!” Gregory countered.

  Suzanne was looming over Gregory’s seated figure. “You’re a miserable, pathetic phony!”

  “You’re a spoiled, good-for-nothing bitch!” he shot back. “You’re not even related to my father!”

  “Neither are you!!” Suzanne saw Judith out of the corner of her eye. “Oh!” She straightened up and joined Judith in the entry hall. “Sorry.” She hugged herself, perhaps, Judith thought, to keep from doing Gregory bodily harm. “Mrs. Flynn, my mother is terribly upset that you’ve allowed this…person to enter your establishment. She can’t have him under the same roof. Can’t, not won’t.”

  Judith wasn’t pleased with Gregory’s presence, either, but she’d be damned if Andrea Kluger dictated her standards of hospitality. “Then,” she said with a lift of her chin, “your mother should move to a hotel.”

  “That’s impossible!” Suzanne cried. “She’s in no condition to move! How dare you! I’ll call my…”

  The young woman’s irate words were drowned out by the arrival of Phyliss with the polisher she used on the entry hall’s inlaid wood floor.

  Judith winced. Phyliss was also singing at the top of her lungs. “Soon and very soon, we are going to meet the King…”

  “Please!” Suzanne screamed. “Make her stop!”

  Pretending she couldn’t hear, Judith cupped her ear. “Excuse me?”

  “The noise!” Suzanne shouted, pointing to Phyliss, who looked quite manic. “It’s deafening me!”

  “I can’t stop her,” Judith shouted back. Under the circumstances, it was impossible to explain Phyliss’s relationship with the floor polisher. The cleaning woman referred to it as “Moses” and took fiendish delight in driving all manner of creatures—including Sweetums—out of her path.

  Indeed, she had stopped singing and was shouting that she was parting the Red Sea. “Make way for Moses!” she bellowed, heading straight for Suzanne. “Move it, Moabites! The Pharaoh’s in pursuit!”

  “Run!” Judith cried, hurrying onto the front porch. Suzanne had no choice but to follow. “That’s better,” Judith declared, closing the door behind her. But before she could say anything further, she saw a disheveled man standing on the sidewalk. Strands of longish brown hair straggled down his forehead, there was a scratch on one cheek, and he held a hand over his right eye.

  “Mr. Wittener?” Judith said in an uncertain voice.

  “I’ve been attacked,” he said, sounding hoarse. “Look at my hand!”

  He held out the hand that wasn’t concealing his eye. There were several scratches on the back, superficial, but bleeding slightly.

  “Who did this?” Judith asked as he came up the porch steps.

  “Rudi!” Suzanne rushed to his side. “You’re a mess! Why, your clothes are torn, too!”

  Judith noticed that Rudi’s slacks had a slight rent near the left cuff and his striped cotton shirt had a couple of small holes near the breast pocket.

  The sound of the floor polisher no longer reverberated from inside the house. Phyliss must have finished the small entry-hall area.

  “Come in, sit down,” Judith urged Rudi. “In the parlor.” With no idea how they might react to each other, she decided to keep Rudi and Gregory separated. Nor did she want to turn her living room into a hospital ward.

  Phyliss had unplugged the floor polisher and was eyeing Rudi warily. “I can pray over him, too,” she offered.

  “Later,” Judith responded. “Get some antibiotic Band-Aids, cotton, and alcohol from the first-aid kit next to the sink.”

  “I could baptize him in the sink,” Phyliss said. “Just in case.”

  “Phyliss…” Judith shot the cleaning woman a threatening look.

  Rudi allowed himself to be led into the parlor. Suzanne solicitously settled him into the cushioned window seat.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked, examining his wounds.

  Rudi removed his hand from his face. There was a superficial scratch just under the lower lid, but otherwise his eye appeared undamaged.

  “It wasn’t a who,” Rudi said. “It was a what. A big, white-
and-yellow what.” He stared malevolently at Judith.

  She didn’t react. “How did it happen?” she inquired innocently.

  “I was…” Rudi rubbed at his forehead. “I was looking for something outside. This animal ambushed me from the bushes.”

  Phyliss returned with the first-aid kit. “You’re kind of snoopy, aren’t you?” she said. “What was it you were looking for the other day? Some bangle?”

  “Ah…” Rudi frowned. “Yes, a bracelet. That’s what I was trying to find just now.”

  “In our yard?” Judith asked.

  “Yes.” Rudi eyed Phyliss warily. “Is she going to tend to me?”

  “I will,” Judith volunteered, taking the kit from the cleaning woman.

  Suzanne snatched the kit from Judith’s hands. “I’ll do it.” She glared at her hostess. “I’ve known Rudi for years. He trusts me.” She gazed into the violinist’s blue eyes. “Don’t you, Rudi?”

  “Of course. How could I not?” His expression had warmed.

  Suzanne examined the wrapping on the Band-Aid. “Antibiotic?” she said to Rudi. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Warm soap and water will do better. Let me get some from the bathroom. There’s one just off the entry hall.” She sprinted out of the parlor.

  “Suzanne prefers natural products,” Rudi noted.

  “Naturally,” Judith said with a touch of sarcasm.

  Rudi didn’t respond. He was examining the minor scratches on his right hand. “My God,” he gasped, “how can I play tonight?”

  “You have a concert?” Judith asked as Phyliss, grumbling all the while, stomped out of the room.

  “Yes, yes—very difficult,” he said. “It’s a sonata for three violins by Giovanni Battista Buonamente. I am—as you may know—the assistant concertmaster.”

  Judith tried to look impressed. “That must be very demanding.”

  “It is,” Rudi replied, carefully placing his left hand over the injured right. “I not only must play the violin, but act as the representative between the conductor and the other players. It’s a delicate balance.”

  “You came here from Philadelphia, didn’t you?”

  Rudi nodded. “The Philadelphia Orchestra is so world-renowned that I wanted to go someplace where I could be noticed.” He spoke without arrogance. “This city has a fine symphony, but not the long-established reputation. It suits me.”

  Suzanne returned with a damp washcloth and questioning look at Judith. “What kind of soap is this?”

  “Oatmeal, the same as upstairs,” Judith replied.

  “Herbal would be better,” Suzanne asserted.

  Judith was about to quibble, but she heard the front door open. “Excuse me. I’ll leave you to your ministrations.”

  Estelle Pearson had come into the entry hall carrying a Trader Tim’s shopping bag. “I have your pears,” she said. “There was no change from your twenty-dollar bill. In fact, you owe me forty-six cents.”

  “I’ll deduct it from your bill,” Judith said.

  Estelle gave Judith a disparaging look. “That would be Mrs. Kluger’s bill. She covers all my expenses. I doubt that she’ll be paying you for this tragic visit. She’s not only lost her husband, but she’s on the verge of losing her mind.”

  Judith felt like paraphrasing Oscar Wilde by noting that if Andrea had lost not one but two husbands, she must be very careless. Instead, she spoke calmly: “I’m very sorry. In fact, I feel remiss that I’ve seen so little of Mrs. Kluger since the tragedy. Might she not feel better if she came downstairs or went out in the garden? The weather is quite mild and the fresh air would do her good.”

  Estelle dismissed the suggestion with an abrupt gesture. “She’s certainly not going to leave her room while this Gregory person is in the house. Besides, I’m here now. I know how to care for Mrs. Kluger.”

  It occurred to Judith that perhaps she should change her approach in dealing with this self-important crew. Egos were rampant, trumping good manners at every turn. After all, Judith reasoned, her compassionate nature was a strong factor in dealing with people. Maybe she should try harder to make allies, not enemies. She certainly wasn’t getting anywhere thus far.

  “Let me help you make the tea,” Judith offered. “I have a special English teapot I use.” When I don’t put a mug of hot water in the microwave and toss in a tea bag, she thought.

  “Very well,” agreed the maid. “I’ll need a bowl and spoon for the pudding.”

  “Of course.” Judith led the way through the dining room. With luck she could find the tea cozy Aunt Ellen had made out of Uncle Win’s old long johns and given to Judith as a Christmas present some years earlier. The teapot was Royal Doulton’s Sherborne pattern with pink and purple flowers. Judith had bought it on her honeymoon in Canada with Dan McMonigle. She found the tea cozy at the bottom of the linen drawer. It was made of red-and-white fabric, the colors of the long underwear that Aunt Ellen’s husband had worn during cold Nebraska winters. Fortunately, Uncle Win had converted from wool to thermal fabric a couple of decades ago.

  “Please don’t think me callous,” Judith said while they waited for the teakettle to whistle, “but I can’t turn away someone who’s injured himself under my roof. I’ve tried to get Gregory to go to an emergency room, but he won’t. I’ll do my best to see that he doesn’t pester Mrs. Kluger—or Suzanne.”

  Estelle had sat down at the kitchen table. “He’s quite mad, you know.”

  “He must have some sort of mania about Mr. Kluger,” Judith remarked.

  “He does indeed.”

  “How did Gregory know Mr. Kluger?” Judith asked, getting out English bone-china teacups and saucers from the cupboard.

  “I believe he may have been a student,” Estelle replied. “Briefly. That was before Mrs. Kluger married Mr. Kluger.”

  “That was ten years ago, wasn’t it?” Judith said.

  Estelle nodded. “They celebrated their tenth anniversary in August.”

  “So,” Judith mused aloud, “from what Suzanne told me, Mrs. Kluger was a widow for almost another ten years.”

  “Seven,” Estelle replied. “I joined her while she was married to Mr. Farrow.”

  “So sad,” Judith remarked. “I’ve been widowed, too. My first husband was only forty-nine.” She forced herself to sound wistful. “I was at work when Dan passed away. Was Mrs. Kluger with Mr. Farrow when he died?”

  Estelle gave Judith a sharp glance. “You mean at the foxhunt?”

  “Yes. That’s where it happened, wasn’t it?”

  The maid nodded once. “Yes. Mrs. Farrow—I mean, Mrs. Kluger—was there. But she didn’t see the accident, thank goodness.”

  “That’s just as well,” Judith said as the teakettle whistled.

  Estelle shuddered. “He died instantly, of a broken neck.” She narrowed her eyes at Judith. “Why do you ask?”

  Judith shrugged. “It’s one thing to sit at the bedside and hold your loved one’s hand. I would have done that if I hadn’t been working.” Working because Dan rarely did, and in the last few years couldn’t. “But to see your husband killed right in front of you—it sounds so horrible.”

  “Yes.” Estelle turned away. “Yes, it was.”

  Judith frowned. The comment struck her as curious. But she didn’t want to press her luck. “The tea should be ready in just a minute. I’ll get a bowl for the pudding.”

  Setting out a tray, Judith watched Estelle out of the corner of her eye. The other woman seemed calm—except for a tic in her left eye. Judith hadn’t noticed that before. Had the subject of Blake Farrow’s death caused a nervous reaction?

  “Suzanne must have been devastated,” she said, placing two napkins on the tray. “I understand she was a teenager when her father died. My son was about the same age when I lost my first husband. It was very difficult.”

  “Suzanne compensates,” Estelle replied, standing up. “In her own way, that is.”

  “Coping mechanisms,” Judith remarked. “They help us su
rvive.”

  “Yes.” Estelle accepted the tray, but didn’t resume eye contact. Maybe it was the twitch that deterred her. “Thank you,” she said simply, and left the kitchen.

  Judith put all but one of the pears in a wooden fruit bowl Uncle Cliff had made years ago on his lathe. She set the leftover pear on a plate, picked up another napkin, and went out into the living room.

  Gregory was asleep on the sofa. Judith left the fruit on the coffee table and headed for the parlor. Suzanne was still with Rudi, offering him soothing words.

  He wasn’t appreciative. “It’s bad enough that my precious bow has been stolen,” he complained. “But to play tonight without it and with this maimed hand…” He shook his head. “I can’t possibly manage.”

  “Yes, you can,” Suzanne insisted. She was kneeling in front of Rudi. “The scratches are superficial. By this evening, they’ll be healing. You have other bows. You can make beautiful music with any type. Aren’t you the one who told me Isaac Stern didn’t care about what kind of bow he used?”

  “I’m not Isaac Stern,” Rudi lamented.

  Suzanne patted his arm. “You’re not Fritz Kreisler, either. But you have enormous talent. Where do you think the bow is?”

  Unnoticed by the absorbed couple at the window seat, Judith saw Rudi gesture in the direction of the living room. “That lunatic, Gregory. He knew about it. He coveted it.”

  “When did he steal it?” Suzanne sounded very earnest.

  “Probably after the performance Thursday,” Rudi said, his undamaged hand resting on Suzanne’s shoulder. “Or even before. I don’t use it every time. It depends upon the selections. I didn’t realize it was missing until…I’ve lost track of time. What a terrible week!”

  “How true.” Suzanne lowered her head. “What’s to become of us?”

  Rudi looked up and saw Judith. “Did you just come in?” he asked in an anxious tone.

  “Yes,” Judith fibbed. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Embarrassed, Suzanne stood up. “We’re grieving,” she said.

  “Of course.” Judith’s smile was sympathetic.

  Rudi waved the hand that now sported a small adhesive bandage. “You can contact the police to see if they’ve found my violin bow…or the bracelet. I’m beginning to think it was stolen, too.”