He consulted her drawing. “I’ll warn Sam. He’s the next closest. And those two bassoon players behind them. Don’t take any chances yourself, Joan. I can’t tell you to watch out for strangers. It’s probably not a stranger. Just—don’t trust anyone too far, you hear?”
Andrew cleared his throat noisily.
“In that case, I better tell you,” he said. “You remember, Mom, Jennifer was afraid she’d never get into music school if Mr. Petris judged the concerto competition this year.”
“Mmm.”
“While I was working in the lab, Mr. Werner said Jennifer went out with Daniel Petris for an egg roll. I nearly choked when I heard that. And then later one of the other professors came in and started talking about how Petris screwed up the biology requirements when he was dean. You could tell Mr. Werner didn’t want to talk about it, but the other guy wouldn’t shut up. He said he’d thought they were safe with Werner on the curriculum committee to stand up to Petris, but then Petris made monkeys out of all of them. Mr. Werner didn’t like that. He’s pretty quiet, but he got all red in the face and said he fought the S.O.B.—that’s what he called him—he fought him every way he could, but you couldn’t win against a dean like that. If Jennifer knew how he felt, maybe she helped Daniel get the poison.”
There went the fingers through his hair again, just like his father’s. Suddenly it was hitting too close.
“Andrew, I don’t think you should go back there.”
“To the lab? Come on, Mom, you don’t mean that. I’m maybe right in the middle of a murder and you want me to leave now and miss everything? I notice you took off like an ambulance chaser when you got that phone call today. Why should you have all the fun?”
“Andrew!”
“Admit it, Mom. You left this big mess—which, by the way, I picked up—just so you could play detective.”
She bristled.
“I wasn’t playing anything. I even did the ironing over there.” He knew how she felt about ironing.
“There. Not here.”
Joan sat speechless. Serpents’ teeth couldn’t spread butter compared to this child, she thought. Pay the bills, do the laundry, that’s me.
“Everyone thinks you’re so good to people,” Andrew continued relentlessly. “They don’t know you’re just nosy. Why do you expect me to be any different?”
That last sentence and the grin that went with it cut through the guilt she’d been hearing him pile on her. Suddenly she saw the funny side of it all. He had her dead to rights, but it no longer threatened her. She turned to Lundquist, her eyes dancing.
“What do you think, Fred? Is a mouth like that safe out in public?”
“He does all right,” Fred said, dodging the squabble. “If you’re asking whether it’s safe to go back to the lab, I don’t know why not. In fact, I could use an insider. What you told us tonight may turn out to be important, Andrew. But don’t confide in anyone but me. The less you talk, the safer you’ll be. Listen all you like, but stay away from keyholes. Leave the fancy stuff to the professionals.”
Andrew nodded soberly.
“And, Joan, if you remember anything more about the night Petris died, don’t put off letting me know. You may know something you don’t realize is important and it could be worth your life.”
They were both quiet after he left. Andrew cleared the table without being asked and spread out his pre-calculus. Standing at the kitchen sink, Joan saw her own face reflected in the dark glass. The window was a perfect one-way mirror at night; anyone going by would be able to see her clearly.
For the first time since moving back to Oliver, she snapped the shutters tight.
14
The Sunday Courier screamed bloody murder. A fuzzy snapshot of Wanda Borowski and her children smiled beside a photograph of the crowd gawking at that covered stretcher and the natty little man identified as Dr. James Henshaw, county coroner.
Most of the information on the case was attributed to “Lieutenant Fred Lundquist, veteran of the Oliver police force and formerly high point man on the special Indianapolis detective squad that solved the so-called Hoosier Hysteria murders that marred little Clear Creek’s one and only championship in the Indiana High School Athletic Association basketball tourney.”
Lundquist groaned. Bob Peterson never had made the mental switch from the sports page to page one. It might have been worse, though. There were no glaring inaccuracies.
“According to Dr. Henshaw, Wanda Borowski died within moments of the fatal blow,” he read. “Neither the weapon nor a suicide note was found. Borowski, 5-2 and 105 pounds, showed no signs of having resisted her attacker. Discovered lying in a pool of congealing blood on the bedroom floor, her body was fully clothed. She had not been abused sexually.”
The paper told no more than he wanted revealed at this point. Bob had kept his promise not to get in the way. Enterprising as usual, he had noticed that this was the symphony’s second sudden death in a week. Without knowing who had discovered the body, he had proposed a feature about orchestral murders, maybe with a Phantom of the Opera angle.
Fred had been plain: “I can’t stop you. Go ahead, print the name of every last fiddler. Drag in the tuba and the tympani. Hamstring the investigation. Those people can’t help but be alert when I come around, but they might think of Sam Wade as just another player if you don’t screw things up. Think your cute story is worth it?”
Apparently not. Mention of the orchestra was buried in the tame little obituary on page two, surrounded by Wanda’s church and volunteer activities. Bob had made the most of the children’s fresh-scrubbed innocence, their father’s grief, and their mother’s quiet lifestyle and spotless housekeeping. He featured the shocked reaction of the two old neighbor ladies who worried about what the world was coming to “if a woman can have her throat slashed in her own home in broad daylight for no good reason.”
Fred wondered what reason they would consider sufficient.
Licking a last crumb of doughnut glaze from his fingers, he folded the paper napkin he used for a breakfast plate, rinsed out his coffee mug, and checked his watch. At ten o’clock he shouldn’t rouse too many people out of bed, even on a Sunday. He consulted the personnel list Nakamura had given him and started on his rounds.
Elmer Rush was already out.
“I’m sorry. Was he expecting you?” The slender woman with freckles and faded red hair already looked tired. A dustcloth hung from her pocket.
“I took a chance. Do you expect him back soon?”
“I couldn’t say. What are you selling?”
When he identified himself, some of the lines in her face relaxed.
“Come in, won’t you? I really expect him back any time, but I don’t like to say much to just anybody. I’m Martha Lambert, his daughter. He’s not himself today and I didn’t want him bothered by another door-to-door salesman. We seem to get a steady stream of them.”
She led him into a room furnished mostly with well-polished antiques of the simplest, straightest lines. Rag rugs warmed the old floor and plain muslin curtains gave the windows a clean, fresh look. The sofa, on the other hand, had been through the wars. She followed his glance and smiled ruefully.
“I’ve given up worrying, what with three kids and a dog. Besides, who has money these days for furniture? Tell me, officer, what do you want with my dad?” Her face changed suddenly and she clutched the dustcloth as if for support. “Has something happened?”
“No, it’s just routine. I understand he plays in the Oliver Civic Symphony.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m checking facts in a couple of cases involving members of the orchestra. I’m sorry if he’s ill.”
“He’s all right. Sit down, please.”
Avoiding the dog hair, he chose a Shaker chair. She paced, absently pulling the cloth through her fingers.
“He’s not sick, but it’s a bad day. He gets these fierce moods sometimes when he’s not fit to live with. I was glad he deci
ded to take a walk. He took Julie in her chair so he could really move along. It’ll do them both good, I hope.” She crossed the room.
“Julie’s your daughter?” She nodded. “I saw them together the other day at the Senior Citizens’ Center,” he said.
“I didn’t realize you’d met.”
“We haven’t. I was talking to someone who works there and his name was mentioned. He seems devoted to Julie.”
“He’s been trying to make it up to us, ever since it happened.”
“Pardon me?”
“Julie almost drowned once because a couple of kids we trusted her with cared more about cheap thrills than about her. Dad came along in time to save her life—he about killed the lifeguard—but she’s been retarded ever since. It was easier when my husband was alive, but I swear, I think it shortened his life. Now I don’t know what I’d do without Dad. Only sometimes …” She crossed the room again, and stared out the window.
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes he scares me. He scared me a lot when I was little. Then when I left home, I forgot, and when I saw him on visits he was generally on his good behavior. Now … now it’s the way I remember it. He’s all sweetness and love one minute, and the next, you think he’ll slap you down if you look at him crooked. I’ve seen him go into rages at strangers. When I was in school my friends wouldn’t spend the night with me. I know my mother never crossed him.” Her voice shrank. “I leave him with Julie so much. What if he hurts her?”
Lundquist pulled out a card and wrote swiftly on the back.
“This is the crisis number of the women’s shelter nearest us. It’s answered day and night. And I’ll respond if you call me. Has he ever touched you?”
“Hit me? No.” Very small now. “He spanked me sometimes when I was a little girl.”
“Julie?”
“I don’t think so, but how could I be sure she’d tell me?” The tears spilled. She brushed at them, smudging her cheeks.
“I think you’d guess,” he said. “Does she act afraid of him? Have you ever seen bruises or scrapes, or even a red spot?”
“No.”
He unfolded a clean handkerchief and held it out. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose loudly.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve helped me a lot.”
His big hand patted her shoulder clumsily. I’m no good at this sort of thing, he thought.
“I’ll be back,” he said. “I really do want to ask your father a couple of questions.”
“You won’t say anything to him?”
“Don’t worry.”
She was still standing in the doorway when he drove away. He glimpsed his own white handkerchief, waving.
Joan, too, began Sunday morning with the Courier. She learned nothing from Peterson’s story. For once, she knew more than the paper. Turning to Wanda’s obituary, she read that funeral arrangements were still pending. She wondered how long it took for the police to collect all the evidence a body could give them.
Another name leaped at her from the obituaries: Walter Bergdorfer. She remembered at once the irascible old man who had shouted at her and all the other neighborhood children for hopping the chain he’d strung across his lawn to discourage them from beating a path in the grass as they cut the corner. She had never felt guilt, but only mild triumph at clearing the hurdle.
The paper gave Mr. Bergdorfer’s age as seventy-three. Joan realized with a start that she was now within spitting distance of being as old as the decrepit grouch she remembered had been.
The phone interrupted her count of her gray hairs. At the sound of Nancy’s voice, Joan girded herself for a long session of “Isn’t it awful?” and was relieved when Nancy paid mere lip service to the murder and invited her instead to represent the orchestra at the hospital. Charlotte Hodden, the little cellist, had produced a baby boy on Saturday.
“Didn’t you see it in the birth announcements? Someone ought to go. She’s a sweet little thing, very faithful. I bet she’s back at rehearsal within two weeks.”
“Nancy, I’m glad you noticed. I didn’t even know her name yet. Do you want to take flowers?”
“That’s why I called you. The orchestra usually buys them, but you know Yoichi isn’t going to brave an OB ward. Actually, Evelyn suggested you. She wants to go, but she says she’s too busy to pick up flowers. Didn’t I tell you?”
Joan refrained from pointing out that Nancy herself might know her way to a florist.
“All right. How much do I spend?” I may as well check prices on funeral bouquets while I’m at it, she thought.
“I think around ten—ask Yoichi. The Rose Basket’s good and they donate to the orchestra. Just don’t let them fob blue carnations off on you. I can’t stand them.”
“Trust me.” Or do it yourself. “When are visiting hours?”
They settled on two o’clock.
Yoichi welcomed her call. “I am a little stiff and sore today,” he said. “I fell off my bicycle yesterday.”
“No broken bones, I hope.”
“No, only some scratches. Do you know how to get blood out of a white sweater? I am afraid I have ruined the one my mother gave me when I went home to Japan this summer. She made it herself.”
“Cold water. Let it soak a long time. Then wash it the way you usually do. Bleach helps, but you mustn’t use it on wool.”
She had answered automatically, but her thoughts raced ahead after she hung up. Yoichi worried about bloodstained clothing the day after Wanda’s throat was cut? Yoichi? He had been on the scene when George died, in a good position to be sure that no one revived him in time. But why would he have told her about the poison at all? Surely it would have been safer to let everyone go on believing in a sudden illness.
Joan poured herself another cup of coffee and tried to read the rest of the paper. Her mind refused to follow the words on the page.
Maybe Yoichi had planned to say nothing. Then Wanda had seen something and the emergency room doctor had turned out to be Japanese, a man who might have guessed the truth about Japanese puffer fish poison on his own. Far better to blow the whistle and sound innocent.
But why Yoichi?
Why anybody? Fred’s question came back to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine that anyone might hate George Petris, but she found it impossible to think that the soft-spoken young man she knew would commit cold-blooded murder. And not once, but twice.
Don’t be silly, she told herself. If he did it, you don’t know him at all. All you know is the act he’s been putting on for your benefit. It would explain why he unburdened himself to you when he’d scarcely met you. And you thought it was your good listening ear. He’s certainly thorough, if he even scratched himself to explain away any blood he picked up.
Feeling foolish but sure that he wouldn’t laugh, she called Fred to relay her latest brainstorm. No answer. She’d try again after the hospital.
15
With the glowing, slightly overstuffed look of new mothers everywhere, Charlotte Hodden seemed a little flustered by her visitors. Small wonder, Joan thought. Evelyn Wade was playing gracious lady to the hilt. (Joan had felt Nancy’s nudge when Evelyn had deftly relieved her of the chrysanthemums on their way down the long hospital corridor.)
She herself was inclined to the opinion that half the reason for having a baby in the hospital was to escape all social obligations for at least a few days. Now, fifteen minutes after their arrival, she was sure they had become such an obligation. She tried a couple of graceful exit lines, but neither Nancy (who, indeed, might not know better) or Evelyn (who should) showed signs of budging from the two comfortable guest chairs in the semi-private room. Joan was sitting on the edge of the second bed, which was temporarily empty. She stood up and made another attempt.
“Is there anything we could do for you while you’re getting your strength back?” Maybe that would remind them.
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you …”
“Anything, dear,” Evelyn gushed. “I rem
ember how long it took me after ours were born. Of course, it’s even harder with the second—there’s never a moment to rest—though the delivery itself isn’t so bad.”
“What do you need?” Joan asked, hoping to nip any more maternal reminiscing in the bud.
“It’s my cello.”
That stopped them.
“You don’t expect to practice here!” Evelyn sounded shocked. Not unless obstetrics has taken a giant leap, Joan thought, wincing as she pictured the edge-of-the-chair posture favored by many cellists.
Charlotte giggled. “Wouldn’t that set them on their ears?”
“What, then?” Nancy asked.
“Well, you know, the baby wasn’t really due for another week or two. He kind of took me by surprise. And my cello needs some work. I had it all fixed with Mr. Isaac that I’d take it to him next week, so it would be ready by the time I could start playing again. I suppose I could have left it with him on the way over here Friday, but that was the last thing on our minds, especially Ed’s. It was all I could do to convince him I wouldn’t drop the baby in the shower. Anyhow, the cello’s at home and I just know Ed’s not going to want to mess with it.”
Joan expected Evelyn to deliver them from the pregnant silence that followed, but an unruly mum suddenly needed to be coaxed into a more artistic place. Oh, well.
“I haven’t found Isaac’s shop yet,” she said. “Where is it?”
“Just across the street from the old depot—only that’s a tavern now,” Nancy answered. “Of course, I never go to him. He’s strictly strings. You’d be the natural, Joan.”
Mmm. “I do need a couple of strings. How can I pick up the cello?”
“You’re sure? Please don’t go to a lot of trouble on my account,” Charlotte said, looking relieved.
“I’m sure.”
“Ed’s home today, probably watching the ball game. I’ll warn him to expect you to call.” She beamed. “This is such a help. Thank you a lot. Mr. Isaac is going to work on the fingerboard and cut me a new bridge so I can play above third position on the inside strings. I just hope I can still manage lessons, what with the baby and all. I didn’t expect to be so tired.”
Murder in C Major Page 10