Murder in C Major

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  Going over to a neat desk, she brought Joan a mimeographed folder. “Here’s a list of our programs. And I wonder … You might know one of our regulars, from the orchestra. Have you met Elmer Rush?”

  “The bassoon player? He said he’d moved here to be near his daughter and grandchildren.”

  “That’s the one. He spends all day with his granddaughter while her mother works. She’s in her twenties—the granddaughter, I mean—but she’s retarded. There was a water accident when she was very young, and they managed to revive her just too late, or just too soon, some people say. Sometimes he brings her to the center. It gives him a chance to talk to adults during the day. That’s why a lot of people come. A husband or wife is senile or ill, or dead, and they feel lost.”

  “Mm-hmm. It’s lonely.” She remembered how empty the house had felt without Ken, in spite of two active children.

  “Yes,” said Margaret, “even for people like me, who are used to living alone. Your friends keep dying. Young people arrange all the right things, but they haven’t lived long enough to know what we’re missing. Some of them talk to all of us as if we had lost our minds.”

  “Before my husband died, I thought I knew what being widowed must be like, but you know, I had no idea at all. I’m sure I don’t know what it’s like to be older than everyone around me, either.”

  “But you know you don’t know. Just think it over. I’ll be glad to dredge up an old report card, if you need a reference.” Her mouth twitched at the corners.

  Down, girl, Joan told herself. You don’t even know their requirements, much less what they pay. But her relief at a real possibility outweighed any such sensible concerns. She collected herself enough to answer.

  “Margaret, thank you for telling me about it. Even if it’s only temporary, it could mean a lot to me and to Andrew.”

  “If you’re serious, I’ll bring up your name tonight. Then you can apply tomorrow.”

  “Oh, would you, please?” The child in Joan had already begun to celebrate. Maybe you can go home again after all, she thought.

  4

  Nancy climbed into the car with her mouth open. “It’s been quite a week. How are you? I’m just worn out. This is the only week the painter could come, and you know how that turns everything upside down. He brings assistants and they spread out all through the house. No matter where I go to try to get something done, they’ve covered everything in sight. I’m putting new curtains in our room—the color is completely different. And you just can’t find decent lining in Oliver, or three-inch buckram for the heading. I went all the way to Bloomington for that. They’re turning out rather well, though, if I do say so. I finally told the painters they could have my sewing room or my workroom, but not both at once. That’s the only way I’ve managed at all. Every time they give a coat of paint another day to dry, I have to switch from curtains to a big Halloween layout I’m doing.”

  She paused just long enough to register Joan’s surprise. “September isn’t early at all for Halloween. I’m already working on Christmas. Oh, and Joan, are you still looking for a job? Because I’ve been talking with the manager and I think I’ve found you at least a little one, if you’ll have it.”

  Joan smiled, ready to share her news. “Well,” she said, but Nancy cut in quickly.

  “Don’t say no until you’ve heard. It isn’t much money, but it isn’t much work, either, just a few hours every week, and some of them you’d be using anyway.”

  “Nancy, what are you talking about?”

  “The librarian’s job. For the orchestra. We finally have the funds to pay someone to do properly what we’ve been messing up b’guess and b’gosh for years. You order the music, with Alex, of course, and take charge of it when it comes. We have some of our own, but whatever we rent or borrow has to be returned on time and erased, or we’re socked with fines. Someone’s always losing a part. If it turns up a month later, it might as well not turn up at all. You’d need a better system than we have now. And you’d do odds and ends for Yoichi Nakamura—he’s the manager. A Japanese student. He said a couple of words last week, remember? The pay’s low, but after all, you’re not doing anything else, and it might help some.”

  “It might at that. But you’re wrong about one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “I am doing something else. Since Monday. I’m acting director at the Senior Citizens’ Center.” She enjoyed the look on Nancy’s face.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake! You certainly didn’t waste any time. How did you find out about it?”

  “As a matter of fact, you sent me to it, when you told me Margaret Duffy was still in town. She’s my insider. Nancy, it’s only been three days and I have a lot to learn, but I think I’m going to like it. If I really fit in, there’s a chance that I’ll get to stay. On the other hand, I don’t see why I couldn’t do the orchestra job in the evenings. How do I apply?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. The orchestra has been asking around and getting no takers for about a month. Tell Alex you’re willing and I’m sure it’s yours.”

  At this rate, Joan thought, I could expect the bank presidency to fall into my lap by next month. Nancy was already back to debating wallpaper in the stairwell.

  In the parking lot they pulled up beside an old green Volkswagen Rabbit. Joan recognized Elmer’s shock of white hair. So he had made it past the tryouts.

  “You survived.”

  “I did. Not only that, I’m sitting first. How’s that for an old man?”

  “That’s great, but seventy isn’t so old.” She grinned at him.

  “I don’t remember bragging on my age to you.”

  “No, I peeked. Congratulations, Elmer. The new acting director of the Senior Citizens’ Center is proud of you.”

  “Well, then, we’ll have a chance to get to know each other. Congratulations to us both.” He shook her hand warmly.

  Onstage, congratulations were restrained at best. Earrings clanking, the former first bassoonist managed a civility that fell a few hundred yards short of cordiality. Joan hoped that Elmer could weather the miffed feelings and that his musicianship would justify a decision to bump someone with seniority in the orchestra. Amateur egos, she knew, were no less touchy then those of the pros. Maybe more so. At least professionals could sooth their wounded self-esteem with cash. Amateurs were all too likely to be donating to the very group that demoted them.

  Other seating seemed to raise no eyebrows. From her vague memories of the week before, Joan thought most of the prominent players were the ones she had seen then. Nancy would know, of course, or John Hocking. She found Alex and was welcomed warmly as librarian and manager’s assistant, as Nancy had predicted. The job paid a thousand dollars a season—no pittance after all. Diving right in, she helped distribute folders and barely had time to tune before the rehearsal began in earnest.

  They read the breakneck last movement of the Schubert, she hoped almost up to tempo. To her chagrin, Joan found that the little practice she had managed in her hectic week of interviews and first, unexpected days at work had been spent on the wrong places. She penciled scribbly stars beside the most glaring difficulties, wondering if she’d ever be able to do them justice.

  Then, back they went to the violins’ problems. Books and knitting reappeared. Empty-handed again, Joan remembered that she had meant to check out the player married to her old classmate. The oboes had their reed knives and sandpaper out again. Bent to his task, Sam Wade didn’t meet her eyes. No wonder the man chose a political career, she thought. That handsome face and wavy hair, graying over the temples, had to be worth at least ten percent of the vote. He’d be the bane of the political cartoonists, though. No feature was irregular enough to caricature. They’d have to label his briefcase or stick a little flag in his hand.

  Beyond him she saw George Petris beginning to wind the base of his double reed. And wonder of wonders, Elmer had won him over. At least, they had their heads together and George seemed to be demonstrating his
technique. Suddenly, almost fiercely, Alex tapped for quiet. George finished a sentence in full voice, but Elmer quickly leaned forward and slipped the bassoon reed he was making into a bottle to soak. He sat very still, his face reddening. Not wanting to embarrass him, Joan looked away.

  Playing or waiting, she was very warm. She mopped her eyebrows with the handkerchief that kept her chin and chin rest from floating apart on a puddle of perspiration.

  At intermission, even the awful punch appealed. Yoichi approached her, asking apologetically if she would pass out some new parts during the break. Crunching on an ice cube, by far the best part of the punch, she worked her way around the sections.

  It was easier than passing out folders before the rehearsal, because almost everyone had left for a drink or a breath of outside air. The horn chorale haunted her again and the trumpeter was attacking a concerto. John Hocking’s daughter, pointed out by her father, was working on her geometry, pencil clenched and tongue between her teeth. Joan slipped the music into her folder, but the girl didn’t look up.

  When Joan came past the flutes to the oboe section, where Sam Wade was drying his pads with cigarette papers slipped under the keys, her foot tangled with a chair leg and she landed almost in his lap, sending the chair and a stand crashing, music flying, and a reed bottle spinning.

  “Are you hurt?” He helped her up.

  “Only my dignity.” She wished it were true. She hadn’t changed clothes since work; one pair of stockings had just joined her stockpile for staking up tomatoes. Almost worth adding to the tomato stakers—watch it, Joan, she thought. He’s married, and to a very possessive lady, if I heard Nancy right.

  “What klutz dumped my music?” roared a familiar voice behind her.

  “Oh, go klutz yourself,” she heard herself answering. “It’s all there.”

  Quickly, she set the stand on its foot, collected the pages, added the new ones, and stood the bottle up. She hoped its lid had protected the fragile reeds. She knew how temperamental they could be, and she could imagine what George Petris would say if one of those reeds failed him later. Without looking back at either man, she moved on with the music.

  John Hocking was chuckling when she returned to her seat. “I’ve never seen him at a loss for words before,” he told her. “He’s not used to people who don’t lie down and play dead.”

  “I’d like to see him muzzled. No one has a right to be so ugly to people.” Her own indignation annoyed her. Music, she reminded herself. That’s why I came.

  Her annoyance increased when she realized that there would be no tuning for the second half. The break had run too long, and the concertmaster was among the laggards Yoichi was shooing in from the cool evening air. Alex didn’t wait, but began with the violins and violas.

  “Let’s take it from the top of the second movement. There are a lot of you, but I want to hear you sound like one instrument. Be with my beat immediately and keep it steady—no accents—just like a machine. It’s only piano, but I’ll need a little more from the cellos and basses after the third bar.” She turned to them. “That’s where you have something to say.”

  With all the hard things in this symphony, thought Joan, here we are rehearsing pom-poms. But by the fourth time through the first few measures, she could hear why. What a simple thing, she thought, and what a difference!

  “Now with everybody, please.”

  Pom-pom-pom-pom, pom-pom-pom-pom, steady as a rock. The cellos and basses introduced the little theme. Then, with the first oboe note, the pom-poms obediently dropped to a well-defined whisper. But the oboe was all wrong, off pitch, lagging behind the beat. Serves him right, Joan thought smugly. Abruptly, he broke off altogether.

  Alex’s face changed from business to concern. “George, are you all right?”

  He tried to answer, but he couldn’t seem to work his mouth. “Num,” Joan heard him say, into silence as sudden as a General Pause. He was sitting in an odd position, holding his oboe awkwardly. As he spoke, it began to slip from his fingers. The flutist to his right caught it before it could hit the floor.

  “He’s sick!” she exclaimed. Sam leaned over to support him from the left.

  “He needs an ambulance, fast. How far are we from the hospital?” asked Elmer, behind him.

  “Not far, but the phones here are all locked up,” answered John. “I’ll take him.”

  “I’ll help you,” Yoichi offered.

  “George, I’ll take care of your oboe for you. Don’t worry about a thing,” the flutist told him. He managed to nod in her direction. John and Yoichi half-supported, half-carried him from the stage.

  The general hubbub of concern among the remaining members of the orchestra lacked a certain warmth. No one said, “Poor George, I hope he’s all right.” Comments tended more toward: “He was fine during the break; I talked to him” and “Where’ll we get another oboe if he’s not back by the concert?” and “Looks like a stroke, or some kind of seizure, whaddya think?” Alex cut through the chatter to ask who knew George’s son.

  “Glenda ought to,” someone answered and was promptly shushed.

  “I know Daniel,” volunteered the flutist who had saved the oboe.

  “Good. Would you phone him, Wanda? As for the rest of us, I doubt that we’ll do much in the next half hour. Let’s call it a night.”

  Joan sat staring at George’s empty seat, watching Wanda pack up for him and feeling what she knew was a childish guilt at seeing her wish come true. The boor had certainly been muzzled. Much as she disliked the man, she wouldn’t wish sudden collapse on anyone. No use dwelling on it; she might as well take care of John’s viola, which he’d left on his chair, and see what else she should do to close up, since Yoichi was gone too.

  “Are you all right?” Sam Wade swiveled to look at her. “You took quite a fall a while back.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a little startled.” In the back of her mind she realized why. The scene she had just witnessed reminded her all too vividly of her young husband’s sudden heart attack. Mustn’t think of that right now.

  “You’re Sam Wade, aren’t you?” she made herself ask. “I’m told I went to school with your wife.”

  “College?”

  “No, elementary school. Nancy Van Allen says we were all three in the same class.”

  “Let’s see if Evelyn remembers.” He looked around vaguely and then spotted the woman whose elegance had struck Joan the week before. A slight jerk of his head brought her to them, at her own high-heeled pace.

  “Evelyn, this is—but I forgot to ask your name.” His rueful smile melted her.

  “Joan Zimmerman—at least that’s who I was back in Miss Duffy’s sixth grade, I hate to think how many years ago. Nancy tells me you were there, too.”

  “How interesting. What brings you to Oliver?” The queen greeting the commoner.

  “We needed a change and my son wanted to look over the college for next year.” Pretty lame, but Evelyn didn’t seem to notice.

  “Poor boy, he’ll have to live in a dormitory. He can’t move into a fraternity until his sophomore year, you know.”

  “I don’t think he’ll do that.” I’m not about to tell this one he might have to live at home, or why, Joan thought.

  “Sam’s a Mu Tau Kappa man. It’s the best on campus. Your son really should get to know those young men.”

  “I’ll mention it to Andrew.”

  Evelyn turned her back ever so subtly.

  “Sam, dear, what happened to George Petris? I was helping Glenda put the refreshment supplies in her car when they brought him out and drove off. He looked terrible.”

  “I don’t know. He was fine one minute and then he couldn’t play at all.”

  “He never could play as well as you. I still don’t understand why you’re willing to sit second to him. You know, Joan, Sam is a superb musician. The orchestra is lucky to have him. It’s sad that he’ll probably have even less time for it next year than he does now.”

 
Joan didn’t let her have the satisfaction of explaining.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Music is a joy to me. I’d hate to crowd it out of my life. But speaking of time, I should let you go. I still have a job to do here. Thank you, Sam, for picking me up. See you next week.”

  She left them and began collecting folders, irritated at herself for letting the woman bother her, but not altogether dissatisfied with what she’d done about it. She noticed that almost everyone had left. Alex came to ask if she needed help.

  “Thanks, I think I’ll be fine. What do you suggest I do about John’s viola?”

  “Yoichi left his violin, too. I imagine they’ll both come back here. If you’re finished before they come, would you be willing to take the instruments and leave them a note? The janitor stays until ten. They’ll be able to get in until then. You might check with them in the morning if they haven’t called you.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you next week, then.”

  Alex trundled off. Joan wished she’d remembered to ask whether the janitor was paid to clean up after some of the messier players. She found Styrofoam cups, some still containing dregs of punch and an occasional cigarette butt, under a number of seats. Nancy, coming for her ride home, helped her toss the mess into the trash. They decided that the shavings around the oboes’ seats were certainly the janitor’s job, but Joan picked up the little bottle of reeds she had kicked earlier. She found the lid on the floor and screwed it on tightly so that it wouldn’t leak onto the music in the librarian’s box.

  Just as they were leaving, John arrived. He couldn’t tell them much. “Yoichi sat in the back seat with him. I drove.”

  “It was good of you to go.”

  “I hope so. I’m afraid he might have been better off if we’d found a way to call an ambulance after all. By the time we got there, he was having a terrible time breathing. Yoichi said his uncle died just like that. He took George right into the emergency room. I only hope they didn’t make him wait.”