“How come she had his oboe?”
“She caught it when he fell. I grabbed him and she grabbed it. When we saw how bad he was, she told him she’d take care of it, and he kind of nodded. That was that.”
“You know it’s missing.”
Sam nodded. “I read it in the police report.”
“Sam, would an oboe be worth much on the open market? Was there anything special about this one? It seems like an unlikely thing to walk off with.”
“It’s a good instrument, a Lorée, pretty much the twin of mine, although no two are ever quite the same. They depreciate. It might bring fifteen hundred or thereabouts, if you could find the right buyer. You couldn’t fence it. The serial number would leave a trail a mile wide. Nothing else was stolen?”
“No,” Fred said. “It’s a funny business.”
“I suppose she didn’t have much worth taking. I had the impression that she lived fairly simply.”
“There was some cash lying around, and antique silver right there in the buffet.”
“That’s funny, all right.” Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “You think she surprised a sneak thief before he could take off with the goods, and he killed her and ran with the first thing handy?”
“No. She spent the whole morning at home. The kids and the neighbors agree about that. There’s another possibility, though. We still haven’t recovered the weapon, and if this was a spur of the moment thing, I wonder if it wasn’t the reed knife. Petris did have one, didn’t he?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I can’t remember what they look like. Is yours handy?”
Sam patted his pockets and handed Fred a black-handled knife, its blade covered by a brown leatherette case with a metal rim.
Fred whistled softly when he removed the case. Three inches long and almost an inch wide, the blade tapered from a back an eighth of an inch across to an edge as sharp as any razor’s. He found the gap where the blade entered the plastic handle too dark to see how solidly it was seated.
“I’d think one of these would have no trouble doing the job,” he said, testing the edge cautiously with his thumb. “The handle would give us decent prints, too, if we got lucky enough to find it. Okay to show this to Henshaw?”
Sam shrugged. “I won’t need it till Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?” Fred sheathed the blade and pocketed the knife.
“Orchestra night. Far as I know, we’re rehearsing.”
“I’ll want to be there.”
“Don’t you think you’re carrying this orchestra bit a little far? Sure you aren’t just interested in that Mrs. Spencer?”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“Catherine Turner catered the dinner Friday. It was one of those stand-up deals. Don’t ever go into politics, Fred. There comes a time when your arm drops off from shaking hands, your teeth are dying of exposure, and you can hear your stomach rumbling during what passes for dinner. I finally sneaked out to the kitchen and intercepted a tray of hot things straight from the oven. I almost didn’t get away. Catherine and I go way back, and she had a few choice things to say about you and Mrs. Spencer.”
“There’s nothing to say.” Fred tried to keep his voice light. Inside, he fumed. Who did Catherine think she was, staking out a claim on him like that, and to the county attorney?
“That’s not the way she heard it. Her Aunt Trudie says you made a date with the lady.”
“I don’t even know her Aunt Trudie.”
“Maybe not, but she knew you when you came into the Senior Citizens’ Center. Better watch your step. Catherine was spittin’ nails.”
That explained the uproar about the sourdough on Saturday. Fred had no intention of becoming Catherine’s exclusive property and even less of discussing the matter.
“Speaking of food, Sam, I’ve been wondering how many wind players eat before they play.”
“I always have supper.”
“I was thinking of the refreshments at the orchestra break.”
“You’re really taking this poisoning business seriously, aren’t you?”
Fred didn’t answer.
“All right, all right. Me, I stick to water. Anything else gunks up the instrument.”
“That’s what my old band director always tried to tell us at football games. You can imagine how well we listened. How about Petris and Borowski?”
“They both kept away from crumbs, too, but I think he usually had whatever they were offering to drink. I’m not sure about her. It didn’t seem to affect his playing any.”
“Good, was he?”
“We were lucky to have him as a player.” A large “but” hung there, unspoken.
“And otherwise?”
“I got along with him all right. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that he’d never win a popularity contest.”
“Any of the other folks who knew about reed knives likely to have it in for him—or for Borowski?”
“I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Sam stood up. “Tell you what, Fred. Go talk it over with the little Mrs. Spencer. You wouldn’t want to make a liar out of Aunt Trudie, would you?”
Fred accepted the pleasantry as the dismissal it was. At the door, he turned back for one last question.
“Almost forgot, Sam. Where were you between ten o’clock and noon yesterday?”
The politician’s smile held.
“In and out of the office. Maxine keeps a log.”
“Thanks. See you Wednesday, if not before.”
He decided to give Elmer Rush another try before stopping for a late lunch. As he pulled up in front of the house, he saw the wheelchair halfway down the block and went on foot to meet it.
Rush remembered him from his visit to the Senior Citizens’ Center. Frowning, he introduced Julie in a friendly enough tone.
“Mr. Lundquist is a policeman, Julie,” he told her.
Her smile made Fred wish he could add a dozen of his excess years to her mental ones. He held out his hand.
“Hello, Julie. How are you?”
“Fine.” She beamed at him and took his hand as a small child would.
“I met Julie’s mother,” he said over her head. “She explained about her. Sounds like a freak accident.”
“Accident, my foot!” Rush exploded. “It was criminal. Someone had been fooling with the safety grill over the pool’s filter. Julie must have dislodged it, and the suction of the pump held her underwater. By the time I finally got the so-called lifeguard to turn it off, the bruise on her back was the shape of the drain.”
Julie was beginning to look back and forth at their troubled faces. Her own mouth turned down.
“But now you’re just fine, aren’t you, punkin?” her grandfather said quickly, giving the wheelchair a twirl. She giggled, sounding like any little girl on a merry-go-round.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” Rush asked, maintaining the light tone he had just used with Julie.
“It’s about Mrs. Borowski.”
“Mrs. who?”
“She played flute in the symphony.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Maybe you read about her or heard it on the news. She was murdered yesterday.”
“I saw the story, but I didn’t read it. Those things depress me.” He gripped the chair and marched it toward the house. Fred’s long strides kept up easily.
“I don’t want to upset you, but I do hope you can help me with a couple of things. Would you rather wait until Julie’s home?”
“If you must.”
They left Julie with her mother and continued walking. As soon as they were out of earshot, Rush turned on Fred.
“What business did you have bothering my daughter?”
“I was looking for you.”
“You were dredging up old horror stories. There’s no call for that.” Grim-faced, he marched on, his back straight and his every step a slap at the pavement.
“No, there wouldn’t be. I mentioned to Mrs. La
mbert that I had seen you at the Senior Citizens’ Center with Julie. She told me less than you did about what happened to her.”
“You called it a freak accident.”
“Mr. Rush, I’ve seen a lot of drownings. It’s a rare thing that someone survives after being under long enough to have problems from it, and it was even less common some years back. I’m sorry it happened to Julie. She’s a beautiful young woman.”
“What did you want with me?” He wasn’t yielding an inch.
“As I said, I’m investigating the death of Wanda Borowski. She was the flute player who sat almost immediately in front of you in the symphony rehearsal last Wednesday—the one who packed up the oboe when George Petris became ill.”
“Oh, her.” Rush scratched the top of his ear. “I don’t know what I could tell you about her.”
“What about him? I didn’t want to alarm your daughter, but there is some question about his death, too. We’re considering the possibility that Mrs. Borowski might have been killed because she was in a position to notice something before he died.”
“That’s pretty far-fetched.”
“I hope so. If not, I’m afraid you might be in some danger yourself.”
“Oh.” They took a few steps in silence. “I can’t think of anything. I really think you’d do better to talk to people who knew him longer.”
“I understood that you and he had become fairly friendly by last Wednesday.”
“All I did was set out to make a little peace. I see no point in playing in a group like that if there’s constant backbiting.”
“Backbiting?”
“I don’t know what that man’s problem was, but I learned a long time ago that the best way to win someone over is to ask his advice. I’ve been winding reeds since before he was born, so I let him teach me how to do it. Never fails.” His eyes suddenly twinkled.
Fred ran through the details of the rehearsal and the break. Rush had gone out for some cool air, but he hadn’t bothered with the punch and cookies nor taken particular notice of those who had.
“I drank that stuff the week before and wished I hadn’t. This old dog learns fast.” He grinned. His anger seemed to have disappeared completely. Fred was beginning to understand what Martha Lambert had meant about her father’s moods. They turned the corner at the end of the block.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the oboe itself?”
“No, I was paying more attention to the man. Then I was packing up.”
“Just for the record, can you remember where you were yesterday morning, say between ten and noon?”
“Home. Martha took the other kids out shopping. I stayed with Julie.”
“Would she remember that, if I asked her?”
“There’s no point in bothering Julie. She’d remember anything I told her to—for a little while, anyway. One day’s the same as another to Julie.”
More questioning yielded nothing useful. Fred finally had to content himself with warning the old man again.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant.” The fire was back in the faded blue eyes. “When I got the golden handshake at sixty-five, I didn’t think I’d ever be needed again, but Martha and Julie need me now. I’m not going to let anything more happen to that child. Nobody is going to take me away from my family.”
I hope not, Fred thought.
18
Reaching for the phone to call Fred, Joan jumped when it rang. For a moment she thought he had read her mind, but it was only Yoichi, asking apologetically whether she would be willing to copy some bowings on string parts he had just received from Alex.
“They came in the mail yesterday and she doesn’t want to use any rehearsal time,” he explained. “She has marked the first stands’ parts; we won’t have to work from the score.”
Joan thought personally that violin sectionals would save more time in rehearsal than anything she and Yoichi could put on paper, but she felt too much like the new kid on the block to suggest such a thing. Other people’s behavior during rehearsal suggested that Alex had been wasting their time for years.
“Can you bring them over?”
“It will take some time. The bicycle is not working properly. I think something is wrong with the gears.”
“Do you think that’s why you fell?”
“I don’t know. I am not very mechanical. I will take it to be repaired tomorrow.”
There went any chance of practicing today. Her own laundry awaited her, and the dozen small chores she now put off until weekends. Still, a thousand a year was worth some minor inconvenience. She wrote down his address and promised to arrive before suppertime.
She reached Fred on her second try and told him as succinctly as she could about Daniel’s prowess with sharp knives and about Yoichi’s fall and bloody sweater.
“How does he look?” Fred asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll see him soon. I’m leaving to pick up some music from him.”
“Not alone, you’re not. I’ll meet you in ten minutes. I want to see for myself.”
If Yoichi was startled when they arrived together, he managed not to show it. He thanked Joan for her advice. The sweater, he said, was like new. Dividing up the parts, he gave Joan the seconds and violas to mark, and kept the firsts and cellos for himself.
Joan saw with a sinking heart that the music was Rezniček’s overture to Donna Diana, whose soaring theme once heralded the grueling radio adventures of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.
For her, however, it evoked instantly a nightmarish summer high school music camp at which she had been the sole violist, faced with a long series of arpeggios filled with accidentals that demanded rapid string crossings and forays into half and second positions, all at a tempo beyond what she could manage. It wasn’t a solo—the oboe had the melody—but only the viola part supplied that tricky underpinning, and only Joan had registered to play viola that session.
She had spent most of her practice time on the dreaded passage, bringing it to a shaky adequacy at the last minute. Briefly, the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders by the arrival of a “ringer” from a nearby music school for the dress rehearsal and final concert. It had crashed down on her again when, the first time through the overture, the music student had told her quietly, “You’re on your own. I’m going to have to fake this one. I’d never get it right with only one rehearsal.” All these years later, just seeing the music could still start her adrenalin flowing. Maybe the new kid could suggest a viola sectional, she thought. At least I won’t be alone this time.
Yoichi was responding to Fred’s friendly questions about his accident. No, he hadn’t been hurt badly enough to need a doctor. He had been riding to the grocery, he said, but he’d postponed his shopping and returned home instead to clean up.
“What time did all this happen?” The question was still friendly, but Joan wondered how Yoichi could possibly miss its purpose.
“Eleven o’clock. I heard the chimes on the college square before I fell.” He smiled, a little stiffly because of the crusted-over place on his left cheek, but his eyes didn’t meet the big detective’s.
“Were you leaving from home?”
“Yes, I was studying here in the morning.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I can’t prove it. What time did she die?”
No flies on him, Joan thought.
“We’re working on that,” Fred answered, still friendly. “Thank you for your help.”
In one fluid motion Yoichi knelt to retrieve a violin part that had slipped to the floor. He reminded Joan to use a soft pencil and to mark the bowings lightly.
“Alex may change her mind, or the concertmaster. I hope she consulted him this time. I think he sometimes makes changes only to show that he is concertmaster. Not always good ones.” He smiled, but Joan was sure he meant it.
On the way back, Fred was quiet. Pulling up in front of Joan’s house, he said, “I wish I could believe him. His face is scraped about right for
a fall.”
“But?”
“Did you see him pick that music off the floor? You told me he was stiff and sore.”
“He’s probably more accustomed to kneeling than we are. Besides, how do you know it didn’t hurt?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. I always have the feeling that he’s holding something back.”
She avoided his eyes.
“You, too?” he asked. She laughed.
“No, that was an experiment. The sweater business made me wonder and I don’t really know him at all. But I do know not to worry that he doesn’t look me in the eye. That’s not Japanese. Yoichi has been here for some time, you can tell, but under stress I suspect he’ll always come across as shifty-eyed if you don’t know better.”
“Could be. Humor me, though—don’t spend any time alone with him. I’ll be there Wednesday night, by the way. I’m talking with individual members today, but I think I’d better see a rehearsal.”
“ ‘See’ is right. It’s much too early to listen. We’re still awfully ragged.”
After he left, she flicked through the music. The fearsome stretch jumped out at her. She could imagine the cutting remarks from the oboe section—but no, not this week. Still, a knot twisted somewhere in her middle when she thought of the speed at which Alex would probably take those unending broken chords. She set the marked viola part on her stand, and tossed the others and the seconds into the box of orchestra folders. The bowings could wait.
When Andrew arrived home, she was woodshedding away and not inclined to stop. She’d already put in so many fingerings that she knew she’d have to label another copy Viola 1 and keep this one for herself. Maybe John Hocking wouldn’t mind playing from it and she wouldn’t have to remember what she’d worked out. She was pleased to find that she knew the key changes solidly, at least in her ears. Unfortunately, memory hadn’t carried over to her fingers at all. If Alex would show a little mercy on the tempo, though, she thought she might manage something more than pure faking by Wednesday.
“What’s for supper?” Andrew asked, tossing his books on the sofa.
“I don’t know. Surprise me.” She dug into another six-note pattern, first repeating it over and over, and then connecting it to those before and after it. It was the changes that threw her, and the lack of let-up.
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