“Why should he have to wait?”
“He shouldn’t, of course. It’s not like Saturday night. Although, if enough doctors take Wednesday afternoon off, the place is sometimes pretty busy on Wednesday night. I broke a foot once on a Wednesday and I recommend choosing another day.”
“They’re fairly conservative around here,” said Nancy. “There’s someone on duty, but they’d much rather wait to treat you until your own physician meets you at the hospital.”
“I certainly hope he’s all right. Are we ready to go?”
Nancy’s self-absorbed chatter let Joan retreat into her own thoughts on the way home. In the house, she dumped the music box in a corner, slid her viola and Yoichi’s violin under a table, and flopped into a big chair.
For the first time in months, she unloaded on Andrew.
“It was so … cold. They did all the right things, but nobody seemed to care. Nobody acted as if he mattered. Just their precious music and their own social climbing. I don’t know if I want to go back to that bunch, Andrew.”
“Are they all that bad?”
“I don’t know. I suppose not. It just made me feel sick inside.”
“You’re thinking about Dad, aren’t you?” He hugged her. “He’d tell them where to get off.”
She smiled. Andrew still idolized his father as a dragon slayer, at war with pomposity and afraid of no one.
It was true, Joan thought. Year after year, in one parish after another, Ken had stood up to trustees and committees with the moral courage that had sent him marching to Selma in 1965, young and armed only with his unshakable belief in a just cause. She had never tried to stop him, whether it was his job or his life that he put in danger. His death, when it came, had given her no warning after all.
Joan ducked quarrels. The family joke had been “Dad insists on his way, but Mom gets hers.” But that had been easy, with Ken to run interference for her. Now tears threatened. She blew her nose loudly.
“I thought I was past all that a long time ago. I’m sorry, Andrew. I didn’t mean to do that to you.”
“Any time, Mom.”
“You’re probably right. John and Yoichi were just great. After all, most people who get sick do recover. I’m probably the only one who doesn’t expect George to be back and twice as nasty next week.”
5
Yoichi showed up on her doorstep while she was eating breakfast. Joan opened the door wide.
“Come in and have a cup of coffee. I don’t have to leave for half an hour.”
“Thank you. If it isn’t any trouble, I would like that.” He didn’t smile or look at her.
“No trouble at all. Here you are.” She set a steaming mug before him and pushed the sweet rolls in his direction. “Help yourself to a napkin. I gather you got my note.”
He sat very still for a moment. “Note? No, I didn’t receive any note.”
“I left one at the school. All it said was that I had your violin.” She pulled it out from under the table. He took it and ducked his head at her.
“I hoped you would know where it was. I came to ask and to thank you. I left you with all the work.” That stillness again. He slid the double zipper tabs on the canvas case cover back and forth absently.
“I was glad to do something. How is George, Yoichi?”
His face answered her before his voice could. “George died in the emergency room last night.”
“Oh, Yoichi, I am so very sorry.” Memories threatened her composure again. Hang on, she thought. Don’t go all soggy.
“So am I. They tried to make him breathe again, but they couldn’t.”
“Was his son there?” Someone—Wanda, the flutist—had gone to call him.
“Daniel came too late.”
“What happened, do they know?”
“No, they don’t know. And I don’t understand how it could happen here.”
“What do you mean, here?”
“My Uncle Katsuo died in just the same way, in Japan. There they recognized immediately what caused his death. It was fugu sashimi.”
“Foogoo …?”
“It is a very special fish. It is served raw, prepared in beautiful designs. But part of the fish is a powerful poison. Only people who know exactly how to clean the fish are licensed to prepare the sashimi.”
Oh, fugu. She’d read about it somewhere.
“I remember now. There’s a photograph in one of my cookbooks. And something about a tingle. Don’t some people think the tingle comes from the excitement of eating something that could be dangerous?”
“It is real, if any of the poison remains in the fish. But after the tingle, the mouth becomes numb, without feeling, and then the limbs also lose their feeling and control. Finally breathing stops, the heart stops, and the person dies.”
“Numb—that’s what George said.”
“Excuse me, please?” He leaned forward intently.
“When George stopped playing, he said ‘num.’ I thought It was only part of a word.”
“Then I am certain. I told the doctors and one of them took me seriously, I think. He is nisei—Japanese-American. But by the time he saw George, many poisons could have caused his symptoms.”
“Can’t they test for it?”
His forehead wrinkled. “I asked them to. But I am afraid it will not be possible.”
“Surely, if he ate the fish, they could find the fish.”
“That is why I think they do not believe me. Daniel Petris told them his father hates—hated fish. They ate dinner at a steak house before the rehearsal, he says.”
“Is Daniel truthful?” she asked.
“As you say, the doctors will soon know what he ate. But I have seen only two people ill in this way. I don’t understand it.”
“Yoichi, were you with your uncle when he died?”
“Yes. We had spent the day together fishing. We often caught small fugu, but he usually threw them back. That day we caught a big one he thought he could prepare safely. It is a great delicacy—very expensive in a restaurant. He refused to let me take the risk, because I was only fifteen. He was my favorite uncle.”
“I know how you must be feeling.” She told him how George’s sudden collapse had evoked feelings about her husband’s fatal attack.
For the first time, Yoichi showed signs of anger. His voice rose in pitch, and his careful pronunciation of L and R failed him.
“You think I remember my uncle’s death so strongly that I was imagining this similarity?”
“Not imagining. But don’t you think there are other illnesses that would cause such symptoms?” I’m not helping him at all, she thought. Why should I try to argue with him? “We may never know just how George died,” she tried.
“That is not what concerns me.”
“Then …”
“If I am right and Daniel is telling the truth, then George did not just die. He was murdered.”
Oh, my, she thought. He’s more upset than I realized. “Did you suggest that possibility to the doctors?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did they say?”
“Very little. I don’t think they will do anything. I think they believe it is my imagination.”
“Yoichi, if you truly believe that somebody may have murdered George Petris you must go to the police. Or …”
“Yes?”
“I wonder. Isn’t Sam Wade the prosecutor? Could you ask him to investigate? I don’t know if that’s the way things are usually done, but since he’s in the orchestra—he sat right next to George, for goodness sake—he would surely want to help.”
Yoichi stared at her, too startled for Japanese courtesy.
“Of course. I should have thought of him.” He remembered his manners, glanced away, and thanked her for the untouched coffee and for keeping his violin. “Please excuse me.”
She saw him to the door, wondering how much of all this could have anything to do with reality. Surely no one would send to Japan for poisonous fish to
commit a murder, much less hide it in a steak. It all sounded very strange, but Yoichi seemed much more in control of himself, and she was glad to have offered him a way to do something.
George Petris murdered. She’d felt tempted herself a time or two. But, as she had said to someone, he was more a petty annoyance than anything else. Could anyone really have hated him enough to kill him?
6
“Hey, Lundquist, get your phone.”
Fred Lundquist smoothed his thinning blond hair, flicked a crumb from one gray lapel, and covered the distance from the coffeepot to his desk in three long strides.
“Lieutenant Lundquist.”
“Fred, Sam Wade’s holding for you. He’s come up with a weird one. Do what you can with it—he asked for you.” Captain Warren Altschuler, chief of detectives, was a realist.
Lundquist waited for the click and answered again.
“Lundquist.”
“Fred, this is Sam Wade. I’d appreciate it if you’d respond to a complaint for me.”
“What’s up?”
“Probably nothing, but officially I’m asking you to look into a suspected homicide. George Petris died last night in emergency. You know him?”
“The Greek restaurant?”
“No, this one’s a professor, but I knew him from the orchestra. He collapsed in the middle of last night’s rehearsal. A couple of people took him to emergency and he died almost as soon as they got him there—the hospital says heart. One of the fellows who took him over is convinced he was poisoned with some Japanese fish. Yoichi Nakamura—our manager—very conscientious, but it sounds to me as if he’s off the deep end on this one. I have to respond, though. I sat next to Petris, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll check it out. You want to spell those names for me?”
Sam spelled them.
Keep the public happy for the politicians. Wade didn’t think there was anything to it, but he didn’t mind tying up your day proving it to a worrywart. Lundquist picked up the phone again and dialed.
“Mr. Nakamura? Detective Lieutenant Lundquist, Oliver Police Department. The prosecutor has asked me to investigate your problem. Yes. I’d like to come over to ask you some questions. Your address …? I’ll be there.”
He didn’t hurry. The whole thing sounded like a hand-holding job, not an investigation, and it wasn’t the first time he’d had that sort of call recently. At fifty, a Democratic fish in stagnant Republican waters, Fred Lundquist knew he’d never make captain, much less chief. He’d long since lost any illusions about the merit system. His outstanding record in his years of big-city experience had little to do with the realities of starting over in a place like Oliver. Party aside, being anything other than an Oliver native counted against him. If Wade really suspected a homicide, particularly one that a good detective could get credit for cracking, he’d call on a Deckard, not a Lundquist. In the near-campus traffic, he took his time and meditated on the advantages of taking an early retirement.
He could afford it. The divorce had left him remarkably unencumbered. No child support, not even alimony. She had the house…. He’d probably never be able to swing a house again. If she’d stuck it out, if they’d had kids … if. He’d thought moving back to a smaller town would help, but even here she couldn’t take being a cop’s wife. Or could she? Maybe she just couldn’t take Fred Lundquist. He wasn’t all that fond of himself some days.
A lot of guys had small businesses set up, more in preparation for retirement than anything else. You could see some of them becoming more and more involved in their moonlighting—and less and less effective on the job. Burned out as he was feeling, he didn’t think he could hold up his head if he let that happen. Not that he had anything to worry about. The closest thing to moonlighting he had going was the occasional sourdough he baked for Catherine’s Catering. In his present mood, slapping the loaves around appealed to him in a therapeutic sort of way—but a future of nothing but baking? He shuddered.
He turned into the narrow street and swerved to avoid four Muslim girls, heads covered and long skirts swaying gracefully as they walked to class, oblivious to sidewalks and oncoming traffic. Ten years ago, he thought, a group like that would have turned heads. Now they were commonplace. Foreign oil was flooding even this small college town with new students.
Nakamura was waiting for him on the front porch of the rambling house. They passed half a dozen mailboxes by the front door and climbed two flights to an apartment carved out of an attic. At five-eleven, Lundquist could stand erect only in the center of the single room, furnished even more sparsely than his own place. Nakamura slipped out of his shoes so smoothly that Lundquist almost missed it. For a moment he considered following suit, but he repressed the impulse. Nakamura seemed not to notice. From a corner he brought a large cushion covered in rough cotton.
“Please forgive me. I almost never have visitors. If you are uncomfortable, I will be happy to borrow a chair from my neighbor. Will you have some tea with me?”
“Thank you. This is just fine.” Lundquist planted both feet on the floor and leaned forward, ignoring the peculiar angle of his knees. “Suppose you tell me what happened.”
“It was during the orchestra rehearsal last night,” Nakamura said, kneeling on the floor, his back straight. “The first half was just a rehearsal. No problem. George—Mr. Petris—was playing very well. He usually did. I spoke to him during the break at eight-thirty and he was fine then, too. But when we started again, he couldn’t play and almost dropped his instrument. A viola player drove him to the hospital and I went along to help. He died only a few moments after we arrived.”
“Did a doctor see him?”
“Yes. Dr. Ito was examining him when he died.”
Somewhere, a teakettle burbled and whistled.
“Excuse me, please.” Nakamura rose and disappeared behind a screen.
“Did he give you an opinion about the cause of death?” Lundquist called.
“Not me.” Nakamura came back carrying a round tray with a plain brown teapot and two cups without handles. Kneeling, he set the tray on the floor in front of Lundquist. “He told Daniel Petris that it was his heart.”
“And you think?”
A long pause. Nakamura kept his eyes on his hands as he poured the tea.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said.
Lundquist inhaled the green tea, wishing it were coffee. Give me strength, he thought. Now I have to drag it out of him.
“Thank you,” he said aloud. “Mr. Nakamura, you called the prosecutor’s office.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The pause was even longer this time. Nakamura stared into his teacup.
“I was afraid someone had murdered him.” His voice was almost inaudible.
Lundquist too spoke softly.
“What made you suspect that, Mr. Nakamura?”
Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the difference between “think” and “suspect.” For whatever reasons, the young man stopped hesitating.
“Dr. Ito didn’t see him in the orchestra. By the time he saw him, I’m sure it was his heart. But I heard a fine oboe player suddenly lose his lip and then saw him lose control over his fingers, and my assistant heard him say the word ‘numb.’ Then he could no longer speak at all. We had to help him to the car. He never cried out or complained of pain. He didn’t hold his chest or stomach. In the car, he was scarcely breathing. By the time we arrived at the hospital, he couldn’t move at all.”
He paused. “I don’t know how to explain it. I am not a doctor. I can only tell you that the death of George Petris was nothing like the death of my friend’s mother. She died of a heart attack, and I remember it clearly. But everything that happened to George happened to my uncle, who ate a poisonous Japanese fish. It is called fugu in Japanese. I looked it up in my dictionary for you. You call it a puffer fish.”
Something vaguely familiar nudged the back of Lundquist’s mind. Where had he read
about puffer fish recently?
“What did Dr. Ito say—did you tell him about your uncle?”
“He said it was possible.”
“Even if Mr. Petris did die from eating this puffer fish, why would that make you suspect murder?”
“No place in Oliver serves Japanese food. His son says he ate steak last night and only fresh vegetables. If he died from this poison—or even from one of the others like it—I don’t think the poison could have been in his food unless someone put it there.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?”
No answer. Nakamura poured more tea.
“Mr. Nakamura, help me. I can talk to the people you mentioned, but I might as well go home if they won’t tell me what they know. You called us, remember?”
“I don’t know anything. But I think that very few people liked George Petris. He was not … a courteous man.”
“That’s all? People don’t kill people for their manners. We’d have daily slaughter on the roads if they did.” He heard his own words. All too close to the truth.
“I don’t think anyone would want to kill a man for the things I have seen. But I wonder if a person who is so insensitive in small matters is not also unkind in larger things. I don’t know if anyone loved George. I will not be surprised to learn that someone hated him.”
“Was he married?”
“I don’t know. No one mentioned his wife.”
“How did the son react—Daniel, did you say?”
“Yes. He said almost nothing. He didn’t want to look at his father. I asked all the questions. The doctor said they would keep George’s body for an autopsy because he died so suddenly. Daniel said, ‘All right.’ Then he left.”
If it was Daniel, they were looking for a slow poison. Lundquist’s legs were beginning to cramp. He tried a new position.
“What time did the rehearsal begin?”
“At seven-thirty.”
“And Petris wasn’t sick until after eight-thirty?”
“That’s right. He even had some refreshments. I talked to him then.”
Murder in C Major Page 4