“He what?”
“Oh …” The light dawned. “I didn’t think of that. The orchestra has a cold drink and some cookies during the rehearsal break.”
“How is that set up? Do you serve yourselves? Who provides it?”
“The women of the guild bring it in and serve it to us. Last night Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Wallston were there.”
“Do you know their full names?”
“Mrs. Wade is Evelyn—Sam Wade’s wife. I think it’s Glenda Wallston. I don’t know her husband.”
“Did you see which of them served George Petris last night?”
“No.”
“Who cleans up afterwards?”
“The women who serve.” Nakamura returned his cup to the tray. Lundquist followed suit.
“Do you have any reason to suspect one of those women?”
“No …” It was not all convincing. Lundquist waited.
“I have no reason to suspect anyone. I only think of my uncle. He lived only a few minutes after eating that fish on the dock, instead of taking it to someone who could prepare it safely. And a few minutes after the refreshments were served, George became ill. Maybe someone else was there when he picked up his drink.”
“A player?”
Nakamura sat silent, not meeting his eyes.
“Can you give me a list of the members of the orchestra?”
“Yes. I had prepared the lists to hand out last night, but I forgot to do it. They were with my violin when I picked it up this morning.”
“You went back to the school?”
“No, I went to the home of Joan Spencer, my new assistant. She kept everything for me.” He knelt by a small cupboard under the eaves and brought out a neat list of names, addresses, phone numbers, and instruments. “She took over after I left. She says she knew about the fish, too, from a cookbook. Her name is there with the violas. I added the address and phone of the place she works.”
“Thank you. You do meet each week at the high school?”
“Yes. I assume we will rehearse next week. I don’t know whether we can find another oboe by then.”
Lundquist’s joints creaked when he stood up.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Nakamura. I wish I could tell you that I am sure we’ll find out what happened, but I’m not. I’m certain the prosecutor will proceed if we discover anything that confirms your suspicion.” Listen to me, he thought. I should go into politics myself.
On the way back down the stairs, the cooking smells of a miniature United Nations set his mouth watering. He promised himself lunch at the new Lebanese place before checking back at the station and beginning the work this nebulous investigation would involve. Hospital first, for some hard facts. Then, just in case there was anything to it, he’d better take a look at the school and pay a visit to Daniel Petris. He might talk first to the Spencer woman. She seemed to have picked up the loose ends. The school janitor would have wiped out any physical evidence, unless by some unbelievable luck the drinks had been served in glasses. Even so, they’d be clean by now, especially if one of the two who served had had it in for Petris. No longer convinced that Nakamura was making it all up, he still saw little chance of uncovering much. It was a typical Lundquist assignment, all right.
7
To Joan’s relief, the center had been quiet in the morning. She was grateful to sink into herself for long minutes without any need to hide her feelings. In a few minutes, she knew, the women—mostly—would arrive to open the Senior Craft Shop.
It would be an afternoon of unforced companionship with no program to push, as the knitters and quilters and crocheters plied their needles together while waiting for the few loyal customers who had discovered this inexpensive source of handmade gifts.
An hour later, the shop was in full swing. Customers were indeed scarce, but nobody seemed to mind. As she had suspected, conversation took precedence over cash. A pregnant woman buying baby booties was being instructed by the diminutive top-knotted knitter selling them. “We’ll have to keep an eye on Annie,” Joan teased. “She’s converting the customers.”
“Never you mind,” said Annie. “I’d rather teach someone how to knit than sell booties any day. You find a color you like, honey, and I’ll help you make a sweater and hat, too. That quaker stitch pattern ’s older ’n you are. It’s mighty sweet on a baby, and not a bit hard.”
The young woman smiled shyly, eyes sparkling. “Would you really teach me? I bought some yarn and I’ve been trying, but I get it all wrong. I’d love to make something for the baby.”
“ ’Course you would. And if you come when I’m not here, there’s half a dozen others could show you.”
When the mother-to-be left, Joan suddenly recognized her as the cellist who had struggled with her knitting during the orchestra rehearsal. And next through the door was Elmer Rush, pushing his granddaughter in a wheelchair. Joan greeted them warmly.
“I’ve been wondering when I’d see you here.”
“Julie likes to come on craft shop days. She brought her newest potholders, didn’t you, punkin?” He leaned down and stroked the girl’s short hair.
“Oh, I’m glad. That’s what I want to buy today.”
Julie beamed pleasure. She held out a package of bright colors. “I make ’em.”
“They’re very pretty. I like the blue ones best. And the red ones. Do you have two of each?”
Julie looked at Elmer. “Here’s a blue one, Julie. Now find another one just like it.” To Joan he said, “She’s learning colors with these things. That’s why each one in this batch is all one color.”
“I like them plain. It’s a long hard job, isn’t it, Elmer? How old is she?”
“She’ll be twenty-seven next month. It’s really very kind of the ladies here to let her in on their craft sales.”
“I don’t think they’re sticklers for rules.”
“A blue one!” Julie said loudly.
“Good girl. Now look for a red one. Good. And another red one.”
Julie proudly held out the four potholders to Joan. “I make ’em.”
“Thank you, Julie. How much do they cost?”
Julie looked at Elmer again. “Tell her a quarter, Julie.” She did. Joan hunted up her purse and sorted out four quarters while Elmer settled Julie at the table. She pocketed the quarters and began almost immediately to stretch red jersey loops over the prongs of her metal loom.
“She’s set for a while now,” said Elmer. “She’ll need help for some of the weaving, but she can do this part alone.”
Already the women at the table were talking to her. Elmer turned back to Joan. “I heard on the noon news that George Petris died.”
“Yoichi came to pick up his violin and he told me.”
“It was so sudden.”
“According to Yoichi, they barely made it to the hospital. He stopped breathing and they couldn’t revive him.”
“Maybe it’s just as well.” He looked over at Julie.
“Do you really mean that, Elmer?”
“Some days I think I do. If they’d just brought her back a little sooner. Most people either drown or are fine. But Julie …”
“How did it happen?”
“Oh, the pool hired its usual crew—good enough kids, a little whistle happy. Then this hotshot. Thought he was God’s gift to women. Scrawny crew-cut kid with shoulders and a tan. He was supposed to be guarding the kiddy pool at the club where Bob—my daughter’s husband—used to like to play golf. Martha would go out on the course with him and she’d have the babysitter take Julie to the pool. That day she got caught on the bottom of the pool and not a soul was paying attention.”
“What about the guard and the sitter?”
“They were drinking and necking on the lifeguard’s bench. Seems she’d been packing vodka in Julie’s little beach bag all summer. When she’d show up, he’d volunteer for the kiddy pool. The other guards thought it was pretty boring, and they knew he had a girl, so no one checked up on hi
m.”
“Couldn’t anyone see them?”
“The little pool was around the corner. That’s why they needed an extra guard.”
“What finally happened?”
“My wife and I drove in from Palo Alto to surprise Martha and Bob. When we found them gone, we knew where to look and I figured Julie would be at the pool. She was sweet as she is now, and sharp as a tack.”
Julie, opening and closing her mouth in concentration as she struggled with the obstreperous loops, looked up suddenly, smiled at Elmer, and went back to her task.
“Couldn’t they do anything for her?”
“Oh, yes. When she was in a coma for so long, one physical therapist taught us exercises to keep her muscle tone and flexibility. That woman wouldn’t let us quit. Said if we did, Julie’d spend the rest of her life in bed, all twisted. She has a lot compared to that and she improves a little all the time. But it’s very slow, even now.”
“Will she ever walk?”
“She walks, but it’s slow. The wheelchair is handy, that’s all. Kind of a big stroller.”
“Elmer, what happened to the lifeguard and the girl?”
“He was under eighteen. Had his hand slapped as a juvenile. They charged him with criminal negligence or whatever they call it for juveniles—I think only because of the alcohol. Lost his job, of course, and went back home on some kind of probation. The girl was eighteen. She paid a fine and served a few days.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I wonder how they live with themselves.”
“Do they know?”
“They knew then. Maybe they’ve managed to forget.” His lips tightened and the fingers of his right hand tapped a steady rhythm on his thigh. “I only wish we could.”
“Maybe George was lucky.” Maybe Ken was, too, she suddenly thought. But she instantly rejected the idea. Maybe we’re all lucky not to have lived in Hiroshima, or during the Spanish Inquisition. While I’m thinking lucky, why don’t I think them back alive and well, and Julie bright and active, as she would have been?
“Maybe,” Elmer answered her spoken words. “But you know, I love her and I’m glad she’s here, even like this. Selfish of me, isn’t it?” His faded blue eyes glistened.
“She’s lucky to have you, Elmer. Any girl would be.” She gave him a quick hug. Not quick enough.
“Look out, look out,” said Annie. “That man’ll charm the socks off you and leave you checking to see if you still have ten toes.”
Joan blushed. Elmer grinned at her. “No privacy around here. Peddle your knitting, Annie, and give a feller a chance.”
It was a long time since anyone but Andrew had teased her. It felt good.
She didn’t notice the door opening again until Annie nudged her with a knitting needle.
“There you go, Joanie. This one’s more your type.”
“Go on,” Joan said, laughing, but a moment later she had to admire Annie’s taste in Vikings. The tall man looking down at her and calling her by name had blue eyes that were anything but faded, and something about his mouth reminded her a little of Ken.
Lundquist, entering, saw a radiant woman whose warmth reached out to those around her. He had no trouble picking her out; except for the girl in the wheelchair, she was the only person in the room under sixty.
“Mrs. Spencer? Detective Lieutenant Lundquist, Oliver Police. Is there a place we could talk for a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course. Come into the office.” She exchanged glances with the man next to her and patted the girl’s shoulder.
He felt the eyes of all the old ladies bore into his back as he followed her to the tiny room with a desk and two chairs. She beckoned him to one that looked sturdy enough for his frame and sat down in a canvas contraption he would have been less willing to test.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant?” Wisps of dark hair had strayed from a wooden clasp to curl around her ears. Her voice and smiling eyes more than compensated for a nose with a slight but unmistakable similarity to a ski jump.
“I’m checking into the death of George Petris.”
“Yoichi did go to the prosecutor, then?” she asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m afraid I suggested it.”
He waited.
“He was so upset. And he was convinced that George had died the way his uncle died—did he tell you all this?”
He nodded.
“It didn’t sound very likely, but I thought maybe Sam would know what to do. I’m glad he didn’t dismiss him without doing anything at all.”
“No, he didn’t.” He dumped it in my lap, instead. “At this stage of things, I don’t know what we’re dealing with. I may need to talk to you again, but right now I have only a couple of questions.”
“All right.”
“You’re Nakamura’s assistant? He says you were probably one of the last people at the rehearsal.”
“Yes, that’s right. I was the last person there, except for Nancy Van Allen, who rode home with me, and John Hocking, who came to pick up his viola after driving George to the hospital.”
“And the janitor?”
“Hadn’t arrived yet.”
“I’m especially interested in the refreshments that were served during the intermission. Were there any leftovers?”
“There might have been. But surely … We all had them. There was nothing fishy about them. I mean …”
“Not literally. Sure. But the preliminary medical report is not inconsistent with poisoning of some kind.”
“Oh. You’d have to ask Evelyn Wade about leftovers. Or Glenda somebody. I don’t know all the names yet.”
“What about cups?”
“Styrofoam. They all went into the trash.”
“Exactly what was served?”
“Chocolate chip cookies and something wet and horrible. Kool-Aid, maybe. It was fairly bitter both times I had it at rehearsal. I think you could put anything in it and nobody would notice.”
“Do you know why anybody might want George Petris dead?”
She hesitated. “I met him only a week ago. I found him very unpleasant and I heard gossip about him that might suggest several people. He was a me-first kind of person. Somebody might have resented coming last. Even I …”
He raised his eyebrows. “Even you …?”
“Only a few minutes before he fell, I was wishing terrible things for him. It’s silly, but I can’t help feeling that it’s all my fault.” There was no smile in her eyes now.
“Did anyone like him?”
“I’m told that some women found him irresistible. And, you know, Elmer Rush and he were getting along very well last night. He’s the man with the retarded grandchild over there at the crafts table. He sat behind George.”
“Old friends?”
“No, Elmer is new in town. I imagine they met last week.”
“You mentioned gossip.”
“Nancy was telling me a rather involved story. I’d rather you asked her. I’d never get it right, even if it’s true.”
She looked uncomfortable. He didn’t push it.
“I wonder if he didn’t just get sick,” she said. “People do, you know.”
“It’s certainly possible.” I’m going through the motions to keep old Sam looking good, that’s all. “By the way, Mr. Nakamura mentioned that you had a book with some information about that fish of his.”
“Yes, a cookbook. Would you like me to hunt it up for you? It’s still in the moving boxes.”
“I’m not sure how much use it will be, but I’d appreciate it.”
“That’s all right. If you aren’t in a hurry, though, I’ll wait until Saturday to tackle those boxes.”
“No hurry. It’s a long shot. I’ll come by your place Saturday.”
She saw him to the door. He considered stopping to talk to the old man but decided he’d keep. Several faces turned blankly from the television set tuned to one of the soaps as he passed their uphols
tered corner. To a bridge foursome deep in a postmortem he didn’t exist, but the old ladies at the crafts table, who had heard him announce himself, weren’t missing a thing. Under their scrutiny he felt like a teenager on his first date.
She caught the expression on his face. “They are rather intimidating, aren’t they?” She grinned. “They were giving me a hard time just before you came in. It’s like having a whole crew of big sisters.”
“Joanie, we’re just looking out for your interests,” said a plump woman behind the cash box.
“And Elmer’s,” another put in.
“You’re terrible.” She was laughing now. Not an embarrassed laugh, but a comfortable one among friends. He enjoyed watching her.
“Saturday, then,” he said, deadpan. Abandoning her to them without mercy, he ducked out the door.
8
The shower must be icy by now. Joan called up the stairs, knowing full well he couldn’t hear her.
“Andrew, supper in five minutes.”
The water stopped. ESP, maybe. She heard a muffled acknowledgment to her second call.
He appeared, shaking his wet head, puppy-like. Still barefoot, but dressed in a soft blue shirt, clean jeans, and a denim vest, he clearly had plans for the evening.
“You look reasonably spiffy.”
“Clean clear through. What’s for supper?” He pulled up his chair.
“Pork chops, baked potatoes, salad, and apple crisp.”
“Smells great. Okay if I pass on the dessert?”
“Sure. Have it for breakfast. Why?”
“Got a date. Might need the space. You don’t need the car tonight, do you?” He speared a pork chop.
“You can have it. Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure yet. I just met this girl today. I’ve seen her around school—she’s a senior—and this afternoon she was hanging out over at the Student Union, on campus. I think her dad’s a professor. Chem or bio, I’m not sure. Say, Mom, people were really talking about Mr. Petris today. You should have heard all the garbage they were saying.”
“What kind of garbage?”
“Well, you know. You do know, don’t you? I mean, what happened to him?”
“I know he died. I heard that this morning.”
Murder in C Major Page 5