Murder in C Major

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “I don’t wonder you’re tired,” said a voice behind Joan. A nurse had entered the room on soundless soles, without the warning starched skirts once gave. Her brisk cheerfulness belied the dark circles under her own eyes. She pulled the hermetically sealed venetian blinds to darken the room slightly.

  “You didn’t get much sleep in thirty hours of labor,” she said. “I can guarantee you won’t get much after you go home, either. You’ve had a big visit now. Try to rest some before the babies are out again.”

  “Glenda! How nice to see you here,” said Evelyn, turning from the flowers.

  “Hello, Evelyn. Don’t look so surprised; I work here, you know. And it really is time to leave.”

  “Oh, Glenda, please show them the baby!” Charlotte begged. “I almost feel as if he was yours, the way you stuck with me. She was so great,” she said to the women now being herded out the door.

  “I will.”

  Glenda kept her promise, stopping at the nursery window to point out a baby with a minuscule chin and a mop of black hair.

  “Did you really stay with her thirty hours?” Nancy asked.

  “No, of course not. I only work from seven to three. But I was here when she first came in, and then things were so quiet yesterday that I could almost special her. She was alone and scared. That Ed Hodden is no prize. He dropped her here and went off to do his worrying in a bar, from the looks of him when he finally showed up. We talked a lot until her labor picked up. She’s a sweet girl.”

  A quick look at her name tag confirmed Joan’s suspicion that this was Glenda Wallston, the symphony guild member whose daughter had been entangled with the Petris men. It was easy to understand her lack of sympathy for the sins of the fathers.

  “I’m glad the orchestra sent flowers,” Glenda went on. “Ed sure didn’t. Are we doing something about Wanda, too?”

  “I’ve checked with the undertaker,” Joan said. “When the plans are settled, we’ll do whatever is appropriate. We don’t have the word on a memorial for George Petris yet, either, but I assume we will.” Nor had anyone brought up the question. It seemed as good a time as any.

  Glenda didn’t turn a hair. “I suppose. Should I know you?”

  Nancy introduced them. “Glenda’s a member of the symphony guild, Joan. But of course, you saw her at rehearsal. She and Evelyn did the refreshments last Wednesday, remember?”

  For once, Joan did remember. “That’s right. You told me she served George. We’ve all been trying to remember, Glenda. Did George drink anything, or did he just eat cookies? I’m sure you’ve heard there’s some question about his death.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was filling cups and Evelyn was handing them out. A lot of people just picked them up. I doubt if he ate anything, though.”

  “That’s right,” Evelyn said. “Sam always waits until after he’s played. Most of the wind players do. We usually keep something out for them.”

  “Did you give him a cup, Evelyn?” Nancy asked.

  “I don’t remember. All that fuss, now really. I’m sure the man died of a heart attack, the way the doctor said. Your punch isn’t that bad, Glenda.”

  No one laughed. Glenda looked pointedly at her watch.

  “Sorry I can’t stay to chat, but some of us have to make a living.”

  She stepped behind the nurse’s desk and flipped open a chart.

  Evelyn sailed out of the ward with her chin high. Joan and Nancy trailed in her wake.

  “I don’t see what got her so hot and bothered,” Evelyn said as they stood waiting for the elevators, which seemed to be running in convoys.

  “Is there a Mr. Wallston?” Joan asked.

  “Not around here,” Nancy answered. “He flew the coop years ago. Left Glenda with nothing—no money, no house, no car, no job. Just Lisa, who was about five. Fortunately, Glenda finished her training before she met the bum. She’s managed, but it hasn’t been any picnic.”

  “Did I say it had?” Evelyn asked huffily.

  No, of course not, Joan thought. All you did was loll around in your Ultrasuede suit and your alligator shoes, looking as if you’d never washed a dish, much less a bedpan. Then you cracked jokes about her punch. You’re lucky she didn’t punch you.

  Aloud, she said, “I think she was just tired. I know the feeling.”

  Nancy dropped Evelyn off first.

  “Can you believe her?” she asked. “I know I have it easy compared to Glenda, but I don’t think Evelyn has the faintest idea of what work is all about. You’d never catch her doing what you did over at Wanda’s.”

  Joan’s head swiveled in astonishment.

  “Oh, I heard about that,” Nancy said. “Things get around in Oliver. Actually, one of the fingerprint guys lives down the street from us. He didn’t think his wife would have gone over there in the first place, much less done the laundry. And I can tell you for a fact that Evelyn wouldn’t stoop to such a thing. I don’t think she could iron a shirt if she had to. I’ll bet it’s been years since she even changed a bed.”

  “She did look elegant today.”

  “I would, too, if I spent the time and money she does shopping and at the beauty parlor. She was complaining that it took her all day yesterday to find those shoes. I didn’t think there were that many shoes to choose from in Oliver. She shopped all morning on foot and then went back in the afternoon to try on everything over again. I feel for the clerks.”

  “At least she bought some.”

  “True. I’d hate to keep her in clothes, but I suppose it does help the local economy. Wonder if Sam makes her shop in town.”

  “Very politic of him.”

  Nancy looked blank for the briefest of moments. “He’s a good politician, all right. But that Evelyn.”

  “Mmm.” Saved by the driveway. “Thanks for the ride, Nancy. I’ll see you Wednesday. I hope to goodness I find some time between now and then to practice. This has been a wicked week.” In more ways than one.

  “Don’t forget the cello!” Nancy called, and was gone.

  16

  Checking the phone book, Joan found that Isaac’s Violin Studio kept a Saturday rather than a Sunday sabbath. Might as well get it over with.

  Ed Hodden answered the doorbell barefoot and bare-chested, a can of beer in one hand and the cello dangling precariously from the other by the frayed strap of its canvas case. Joan hugged it to her side like a drunken friend and was glad she had when the strap broke while she was wrestling with the door to the studio.

  Squeezed between a pizza parlor and a pawnshop, the violin shop was distinctly grubby, at least on the outside. Joan looked across the street at the depot-turned-tavern and remembered vaguely going there with her father to meet someone’s train.

  It seemed like a strange neighborhood for a music shop. Maybe the rent was low. She found it hard to imagine that Oliver could support someone who dealt only in strings, unless he included guitars.

  A little bell jingled as she pulled the stubborn door shut. No clerk stood behind the small counter, but a voice called out, “Be right with you.” Joan held the cello carefully by the neck, resting it on its endpin. Violins of all sizes hung from nails on the walls around her, supported by miniature nooses. With a body no more than six or seven inches long, the smallest looked like one of the plastic toy fiddles once sold in dime stores. It might be an eighth size or maybe even a sixteenth. What kind of tone could such a tiny box possibly produce?

  She was fascinated by a full-sized violin missing most of its top and back. It looked like bare bones. At first she thought it must be in for repair, but then she could see that it was beautifully finished as it was. Fully strung, it even had a chin rest.

  “Whatever for?” she wondered aloud.

  “For your world tour. Very useful for practicing in hotel rooms. No one complains when you play out your jet lag at three in the morning. No one else hears.”

  Short, bent, and with the remains of a crop of wiry curls fringing his ears with gray, the man coming
through the door from the back of the shop had to be Mr. Isaac.

  “Do you sell a lot of those?” Joan asked.

  “Not too many people around here make world tours,” he admitted. “On the other hand, once they start thinking about the possibilities, quite a few take a look at a good heavy practice mute. It really cuts down the sound. Wouldn’t you like one for your cello? Very reasonable, and when the children are sleeping you can practice in peace, without waking them.”

  “You flatter me,” she said. “It’s years since I had a child who went to bed before I did. Besides, this is Charlotte Hodden’s cello, not mine. She’s the one who’s going to need a practice mute.”

  “I remember. I’m going to raise the fingerboard to two and a half inches and cut a bridge with some curve to it while she’s having a baby. I don’t know how she could play, as flat as it is now.”

  “That’s it, but the baby didn’t wait for you, so she asked me to bring the cello over.” She handed it to him, pointing out the broken strap.

  “Boy or girl?” he asked, reaching around the cello’s curve for a handhold.

  “A boy. Lots of hair.”

  “And how is she doing?”

  “Fine. She’s tired.”

  “You tell her not to worry. The cello will be ready before she is.”

  “I’ll tell her. And I need some strings myself.”

  “Let me put this in a safe place first. What strings do you want?”

  “A viola A and G.”

  “Come on back in the shop. Watch your feet.”

  She followed him into a room crowded with cases and larger instruments. Several cellos and a bass lay on their sides. Violins and violas in varying states of repair hung from their scrolls in a rack that was a cross between a shadow box and the pipe rack Andrew had once proudly presented his nonsmoking father. Compartments under the stripped-down violins held pegs, end buttons, chin rests, bridges, tail pieces, snarls of strings, tuners, and other less easily identifiable bits, presumably to keep them together while the instruments were in the shop. Three shoulder rests under the same violin made Joan wonder how well the system worked.

  Bows in need of rehairing hung from nails on another wall, some from the frog and others from the tip, each labeled with a little white sticker on the frog. Hanks of horsehair, both white and black, dangled above one workbench, and blank bridges of all sizes were threaded like fish on a stringer over another. A mended violin top lay on the first bench, cushioned by a scrap of carpet. Half a dozen clamps held its newly glued bass bar in place, and square wooden cleats reinforced a long crack.

  Joan recognized vises, clamps, and files. She wasn’t so sure about some awl-shaped tools in several sizes. In an odd assortment of small jars and bottles, mostly baby food jars, she could see fluids, from clear to amber to dark brown. Varnish, she supposed. Maybe glue? A familiar white bottle of Elmer’s lay on its side in the clutter, but she knew violins predated Elmer’s. Dust motes danced in the sunshine above the workbenches.

  “Would you mind taking the case with you?” Isaac asked. “I’m very short of space.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  He unzipped the canvas, tagged the cello, and gave her the case and a receipt for the instrument.

  “Don’t bend that case too far—the bow’s still in there. Now, tell me, what kind of strings did you have in mind?”

  “I could really use some advice,” she said. “I want a good sound, mostly for orchestral playing, but I can’t afford Eudoxas now and my viola chews up gut A strings, even if they’re wrapped.”

  “It shouldn’t do that. Bring it in. Maybe there’s a rough spot I could file down. In the meantime, why don’t you try a Jargar A? It’s chrome steel on steel, and I think the tone is better than the Eudoxa steel A. For the G, you could move down to the domestic Gold Label. That’s still silver on gut, but you’ll save more than three dollars on a single string.”

  She took his suggestions gratefully and watched him sort out her new G string from the bunches of little identifying tags sticking out of the transparent storage tubes on the wall like so many long-stemmed flowers. He presented it for her inspection and gave her a flexible plastic tube to protect it. The Jargar A came coiled in a white envelope—not such a good sign, but she’d try it.

  “You know,” she said, as he wrote up the sale, “I’m really surprised to find you here.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oliver is such a small town. I can’t help wondering how you stay in business.”

  “I keep busy enough,” he said. “It’s true that I’d go under if I had to depend on Oliver alone. We have customers all over the country through our catalog.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought there were this many instruments to repair here. Do you do that by mail, too?”

  “A lot of them do come from out of town. We contract with a dozen school systems to do all their string repair work. Those kids are hard on school instruments. The teachers do a lot of the little routine jobs, but they can’t handle a crack like the one over there.” He gestured to the mended violin top Joan had noticed earlier.

  “And sometimes I sell one of my own instruments,” he said. “I’m almost finished with a viola now. People know I’m here. I don’t need a factory for what I do and I like Oliver, especially with the college here.”

  “It’s a labor of love, isn’t it?” She looked at a half-carved block of curly maple on the second workbench. It was already recognizable as a cello back. “Do you do it all by hand?”

  “Almost. We have a drill, and a bench grinder. Unfortunately, my band saw broke down. That was useful. But that cello over there is all handmade. I have a very promising young man working with me. That’s his, and it’s going to be a beauty.”

  “Would that be Daniel Petris?”

  “That’s right. You know Daniel?”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Very steady hand with a knife, Daniel has. He made me the best knife I ever had. Wonderful blade.” He held it up as she would hold a pencil. She admired the grain and varnish of the handle and then watched with a sickening feeling as he demonstrated the wicked-looking angled blade on a scrap of the curly maple.

  “Don’t you ever cut yourself?” she made herself ask.

  “This kind of work you have to do very precisely.”

  “But it’s sharp enough?”

  “It could cut you to the bone if you slipped.” He looked at her quizzically. “Are you planning to take up violin making?”

  “Oh, no. I was just wondering.”

  She continued to wonder all the way home.

  17

  The Oliver Civic Symphony was turning out to be a churchgoing lot, unless maybe they played golf. The bright blue, almost October weather would tempt anyone.

  Fred’s elbow on the car’s windowsill caught a perfect blend of sun and cool morning breeze. From time to time he passed a jogger; otherwise the streets were quiet. The hills of nearby Brown County, he knew, would already be swarming with tourists eager for a first glimpse of spectacular fall color. He looked down Prospect Avenue. An old maple that had survived a stroke of lightning a few years back was brilliant all down the injured side. Deep purple mixed with yellow and green on the sweet gums. Sassafras mittens were turning golden, and dogwood leaves and berries a bright red. A giant sycamore was shedding leaves the size of dinner plates.

  It’s all in your press agent, he thought.

  No one had been home at the last three houses. Now it looked as if he might be wasting his time at the Wades’, too; only a spanking new powder blue Cadillac faced him from the double garage. Then he remembered hearing Evelyn say in Werner’s lab that Sam’s Mercedes was in the shop. He might be home after all.

  Sam, wearing Levis and an Izod shirt, opened the door.

  “Something come up?” he asked.

  “No, just routine. I’m looking for background information on Wanda Borowski. You’re a witness in this one, Sam.”

  “Com
e on in.”

  He entered through a slate foyer. An antique umbrella stand stood ready at his left. Ahead, a sizable fig tree basked in the golden glow of the sun beaming down through a skylight.

  There was nothing understated about the elegance of the living room. Fred’s feet sank into deeply padded carpet. The Cadillac’s pale blue appeared here in velvet chairs and satin draperies. Clutter was conspicuously absent. In a crystal vase, one perfect red rose was unfolding its first petals. He was sure the decorator would have approved.

  “Have a seat,” Sam said. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” Fred outlined quickly his thinking about the relationship between Saturday’s obvious murder and the nebulous question of George Petris.

  “It wouldn’t hold up in court, I know,” he said. “Even so, I’m convinced that there’s more than coincidence here. I’m worried, especially for those of you in the orchestra who were close to Petris. We don’t need another Borowski.”

  “You’re going house to house warning people?” Sam sounded faintly amused.

  “Something like that. Go ahead, laugh. I’m not laughing, though, and I’d appreciate your help.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Fire away.” Sam draped an arm over a velvet cushion and leaned back elegantly.

  “Let’s stick with Borowski for a minute. What do you know about her?”

  “Hardly anything. She was kind of quiet, didn’t talk much about anything but the music. She played very well.”

  “Was she close to anyone in the orchestra? Did she have any enemies?”

  “I don’t know. I really didn’t get to know her.”

  “How about Petris? I hear he was quite a womanizer.”

  “She wasn’t his type.”

  “What was his type?”

  “Not mousy. That’s it, she was mousy.”