Lundquist trudged upstairs to his sterile rooms, remembering only after releasing his tired feet from their leather prisons that he had promised Catherine sourdough bread for a large party she was catering Saturday night. He retrieved the starter from its covered dish at the back of the refrigerator, divided it into two bowls, and added flour, water, and a spoonful of sugar to activate the culture. Gluten flour in one and rye in the other. If she wanted variety, he’d give it to her. Covering the lumpy messes, he cleared his mind.
Five minutes later, he slept.
11
Saturday began peacefully enough. Having luxuriated in bed until half past nine, Joan woke to bright sunshine streaming through the window. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, made a pot of coffee, and threw a batch of popovers into the oven. If that didn’t lure Andrew out of bed, nothing would.
Her own mouth watering at the delicious odor beginning to waft out of the kitchen, Joan parked her coffee mug on the fraying rug and attacked the dusty boxes of books. Their little house, long rented to students, was in many ways spartan, but it did feature built-in bookshelves in abundance.
Leaving a spot near the kitchen for cookbooks, she filled the shelves at one end of the old sofa with the art books Aunt Margit always sent for birthdays and Christmas. Klee and Miro flanked Lautrec and Leonardo. She sat back on her heels and debated that. Maybe Lautrec should be filed under T. Another day.
Shakespeare, the boxed set of the Greeks she’d always meant to read, well-thumbed volumes of Frost and Mörike, Sandburg’s Lincoln books and the Rutabaga Stories, and Conan Doyle hobnobbed with Schweitzer’s Quest for the Historical Jesus at the other end. She kicked herself for not having organized the books in her leisurely, unemployed days. Filled with new resolve, she closed the lid firmly on a box of childhood favorites. Where were the cookbooks?
She had just found them when Andrew came down the stairs barefoot, tying his robe and twitching his nose.
“Tell me, am I dreaming, or did I die and go to heaven?”
“Cute. Set the table, would you, Andrew? I’m all dusty and breakfast is about ready.”
The doorbell sent him scuttling upstairs.
It was Lieutenant Lundquist in a checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking much less official than he had on his visit to the center.
“Come in, won’t you?” Joan called to him through the screen. “Don’t mind the boxes. There must be an empty chair around here somewhere.” Bent double, she waved in the general direction of one.
The travel alarm she used as a timer shrilled as he shut the door.
“Oh, no! It’s ten-thirty. That’s the popovers and I haven’t even washed my hands.”
“May I take them out for you?” he offered. “When popovers are ready, they can’t wait.”
A cook? She wouldn’t have guessed it. Come on, Sherlock, she told herself. Fine detective you’d make. There’s flour all down the sides of his pants.
“Thanks, you sure could. Won’t you have some with us?”
“I’ll never say no.”
She watched him out of the corner of her eye while scrubbing her hands and setting three places. He flipped the popovers into the waiting basket without tearing even one.
They were on their seconds when Andrew joined them, fully dressed. Hair combed, too, she noticed.
“This is my son Andrew. Andrew, this is Lieutenant Lundquist. He’s trying to find out what happened to George Petris.”
“Hello,” said Andrew around a steaming bite. “Didn’t I see you in Mr. Werner’s lab last night?”
“That’s right,” Lundquist answered. “You came to volunteer. How was it?”
“Boring at first. I just put away supplies. But then he let me photograph some of the signals he was picking up and he explained what he thinks they mean.”
“I didn’t know you’d met, Lieutenant,” Joan said.
“My name is Fred,” Lundquist told her. “I’d feel better if you’d use it.”
“All right, Fred. I’m Joan.” He had nice eyes, she thought. Butter leaked down her chin to rob her of any last remnants of dignity and she discovered she didn’t care.
“Have some of Annie Morrison’s strawberry preserves,” she said. “Remember the little old lady at the center who gave you the gimlet eye?”
“I remember a whole row of them. Did they rib you when I left?” He had the grace to sound ashamed, but a twinkle gave him away.
“You did that on purpose!”
Andrew sat mystified. She let him wonder. Comfortable now, she asked Fred how he had learned about baking.
“This kind I saw at home. But my dad was a baker, years ago. I used to watch him. For a long time, I knew I wanted to be a baker like my father. Then I got hooked on police work and now baking’s just a hobby.”
“You’re doing it today, aren’t you?” she asked.
No Watson, he looked at his pants and nodded. “I’m making some sourdough for a friend’s catering service.”
“That sounds like more than a hobby.”
“It’s just to help her out.”
Her. Wouldn’t you know it?
“Excuse me, please. I think I’ll go find that book.” She wiped her fingers on the seat of her pants.
“Don’t mind us,” said Andrew. “Want the last one?” He offered Lundquist the basket.
“Thanks, you keep it. I’m one ahead of you. Besides, that bread’s been rising for hours in this heat. I’ll get what I came for and take off.”
He was halfway to the living room before Andrew spoke. “My name is Fred” had clearly not been aimed at him, but “Lieutenant Lundquist” was too formal for his taste. Andrew compromised.
“Uh, Mr. Lundquist, can I ask you what you’ve found out about Mr. Petris? The students have some wild ideas.”
“What have you heard?” The big man stopped.
“Oh, just talk.” Andrew backed off. “Nothing, really.”
“You tell anybody who thinks he knows something to call the station. They know how to reach me even when I’m off duty.”
On cue, the telephone rang. Andrew picked it up.
“Yes, he’s here.” Handing over the receiver, he eavesdropped openly.
“Lundquist.” He listened, the nice eyes suddenly cold, and looked at his watch. “Give me the address.” He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “One twenty-five North Merrifield. Right. I got that. I’m on my way.”
He looked at their faces.
“You might as well know. Daniel Petris says he’s found a dead woman. Was Wanda Borowski in the orchestra?”
Joan handed him the Time-Life Cooking of Japan—she’d finally found it—as if it contained eggshells.
“A Wanda sat next to George,” she said. “A flutist. She packed up his oboe.”
He nodded.
“You’re sure she’s dead?” She couldn’t help asking, but in the pit of her stomach she knew.
“Sounds like it.” He watched her closely. “He says her throat was cut.”
Joan conquered her rising gorge. “If I can help …”
He thanked her for everything and left, not hurrying, but wasting no motion.
The offer to help had been automatic. The phone call some ten minutes later was not.
“Joan, this is Fred Lundquist. I have an awkward kind of favor to ask.”
“Yes?”
“I’m at the Borowskis’ and we’re short-handed. Her kids may come home any minute, but we haven’t been able to reach their father. I want them out of all this.”
“Was she really …?”
“Yes. She’s dead, and it’s messy. If the neighbors were a little younger, I’d turn to them, but they’re on the trembly side. Look, it’s all right. I can send them to the station.”
“No, don’t.” Andrew had been awed by the rescue squad that failed to save his father, but she remembered how tightly his hand had clung to hers, even while he tried to comfort her. “I’ll come.”
12
She made it in five minutes. A small crowd had already gathered, attracted by the ambulance and the police cars, their lights flashing and radios clearly audible half a block away.
In this part of town, mostly rentals, there were no bossy neighbors plunging in to take over. Most of the onlookers stood in clumps across the street, talking among themselves, but the kids had no such restraint. Joan feared for Wanda’s small but immaculate lawn. She carefully followed the curving path past a pair of limestone cubes balanced on their corners, up to the shaded front porch, where she gave her name to a uniformed man. Feeling like a goldfish in a bowl, she sat on the porch swing, her toes touching the floor, and avoided curious eyes by staring up at the spider plant and strawberry begonia that hung in pots from the porch roof. Not macramé, but some kind of crocheted holders supported them.
Lundquist didn’t keep her waiting long. He led her into the living room—what her grandmother would have called the parlor. The contrast with the mess she had left at home overwhelmed her. This room smelled of furniture polish and scented candles. Fragile knickknacks and African violets crowded together on small tables, and Joan marveled at starched doilies. One overstuffed chair even wore an antimacassar. She had stepped into another world. Yet Wanda had been a young woman. She had found time to play the flute, competently enough to hold first chair. No sloppiness anywhere. Joan wondered about the children. Were they allowed to live in this house?
“They haven’t dusted in here,” Fred was saying. “Can I trust you not to touch anything?”
Best-dusted room I’ve seen in years, she thought. But he meant the police, didn’t he? Their kind of dusting would turn this fussy perfection into a nightmare for the woman who had created it. Joan reminded herself that Wanda would never know. She nodded mutely.
“If you don’t mind listening,” he said, “I think I’ll bring Daniel in here to talk.”
She wondered why he trusted her. It didn’t seem very professional of him. Or did he?
“Are you sure you want me to hear it?” she asked.
“Yes. You might catch something I don’t. This could tie in to his father and the orchestra.”
“Then doesn’t that make us all suspect?” There. She’d said it aloud.
“Not you.” He smiled. “Wanda spoke to the two old ladies next door when she sent her children off to the park at ten-thirty this morning. They’re sure of the time. They missed the beginning of their favorite television program.”
“On Saturday morning?” Yogi Bear, maybe?
“You know, I wondered that, too. Seems they fall asleep before ‘Masterpiece Theatre’ on Sunday night, but the station runs a repeat at ten-thirty Saturday.”
The light dawned. At ten-thirty, he had been taking popovers out of her oven.
“Sit tight,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
She sat on the spotless sofa listening to the sounds of the house. Murmuring voices, mostly, and heavy feet. An automatic washer spinning. Then Fred and the others calling back and forth.
Torn between fascination and horror, she wished for earlids.
“No prints, Fred. Faucets are wiped clean. He wasn’t so careful about the sink, though. Traces of blood here. Probably hers.”
“Weapon?” That was Fred. He’d be calm in a hurricane.
“I checked the toilet tank and the laundry hamper. Sheets, towels, kids’ clothes. A penny and a couple of nickels. That’s it in here.”
“No razor?”
“There’s an electric shaver. And some Nair.”
“Come on back in the bedroom, then. And keep your big feet out of the blood.”
Joan shuddered. Although she hadn’t seen that gory bedroom, her all too vivid imagination was sparing her nothing.
A dapper little man with a mustache appeared from somewhere behind her, his shining shoes in sharp contrast to the scuffed medical bag he carried. Moments later, two uniformed attendants maneuvered an empty stretcher in the front door and through the living room. The murmuring began again, punctuated by occasional shouts and grunts, and then the stretcher, covered, came back through the bric-a-brac. Joan stood quietly, out of some notion of respect, she supposed, although certainly no one was paying attention to anything she did. She sat down with a feeling of relief. At least the children would be spared that.
Fred returned finally with a slender young man in whose dark features she could see something of George Petris. None of the aggressive impatience she remembered, though. Fred introduced them without mentioning Joan’s relationship to the orchestra. Daniel sat stiffly, his hands in his lap.
“I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time,” Joan said.
He looked as if that was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
“I’m all right.”
She plodded on. “It seems to me you’ve had more than your share of sudden death.”
He didn’t answer, but began biting a thumbnail.
Fred broke the silence. “Would you mind telling me again what happened?”
“From when?”
“From when you first heard of her.”
A smile threatened the corners of Daniel’s mouth.
“I was twelve. She was on my paper route.”
“How well did you know her?”
“I didn’t. She was a customer.”
“Good tipper?”
“No, but she never made me wait for the money.”
“Do you know her family?”
“I used to see her outside with a baby. Sometimes her husband would be sitting on the porch with a beer when I delivered. We never talked.”
“I take it you haven’t seen her recently.”
“No. I quit the papers after a couple of years.”
“Why did you come here this morning?”
“She called me—I think on Thursday—and said she had my father’s oboe and I should come for it.”
“But you waited until today.”
“I was busy. I can’t play the thing, anyway.”
“Go on.”
“So today I called her to see if I could pick it up.”
“Did she answer the phone?”
“I guess so.” He was suddenly cautious. “I mean, she doesn’t have a sister or anything, does she?”
Joan held her breath.
“Relax,” Fred said. “I’m not setting traps. Far as I know, she lived here with her husband and three little girls. They’re young enough I don’t think you could confuse their voices.”
“Okay, then, she answered. And she said sure, come on over. So I did. You know what I found.” Backing away from the specifics, he gnawed at the corner of a little fingernail.
“What time was that call?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “Maybe ten, ten-thirty. I didn’t want to call early. I mean, it’s Saturday, and some people sleep in.”
“And you left home right away?”
“Yes.”
“That’s about a ten-minute drive?”
“I walked. It took maybe half an hour, I don’t know.” His arms were bare to the elbow. No watch. “It’s a couple of miles and I wasn’t hurrying.”
“Exactly what happened when you got here?”
“I rang the bell, but nobody came. So I rang it again. Still nothing. I figured she couldn’t hear the bell. The door was open and I knew she was expecting me, so I called and walked in.”
“What made you go into the bedroom?”
“I didn’t know it was the bedroom, honest!” A trace of panic had crept into his voice. “I didn’t see her here or in the kitchen, so I started down the hall. That was the first door. When I stuck my head in, I saw her lying there in all that blood, just the way you found her.”
“Then what?”
“Then I called the cops. I asked for you because you were the only one I knew.”
“Think carefully. What did you move?”
“I didn’t move anything. I didn’t even touch anything. I just backed out and ca
lled you.”
“On what?”
“Oh … yeah. I touched the phone. That one.” He pointed to a little telephone table with a seat, of a sort Joan hadn’t seen for at least twenty years. Another doily. “I don’t think I moved it any.”
“Anything in her room? In the bathroom?”
“I didn’t even go in those rooms!” The panic was unmistakable now.
“But you felt comfortable walking into her house.”
“I’d just talked to her. I told you. She was expecting me.”
“To pick up your father’s oboe.”
“Right.”
Very quietly. “Then where’s the oboe?”
Daniel’s jaw dropped. He sagged back on the sofa. “My God,” he said. “I forgot all about it.”
Lundquist waited.
“You didn’t find it?” Daniel asked. “You aren’t putting me on?”
“No, we didn’t find it.”
Daniel shook his head stupidly and then suddenly came to life.
“That proves it!”
“What’s that?” Fred asked.
“That I didn’t kill her. Oh, I know you suspect me. I didn’t have to answer any of these questions, but I know I didn’t do it. Don’t you see, that proves it. If I killed her, then I’d have the oboe. But I didn’t, and I don’t.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have killed her? Maybe someone who knew your dad, too?”
“Look, I didn’t even know they knew each other. She called me up, that’s all.”
Abruptly, Lundquist stood up.
“Thank you very much.”
Daniel looked at him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. If you think of anything you’d like to add, you know how to reach me. I’ll ask Sergeant Pruitt to take you over to the station to make a formal statement.”
He escorted Daniel to the door. Through the window that faced onto the porch, Joan thought she saw a mobile TV unit. Yes, there was the cameraman zeroing in on Daniel. Then Sergeant Pruitt, a bulky man, blocked the camera’s view, and they drove off.
Murder in C Major Page 8