As Wanda’s killer, Lisa would know Daniel to be innocent but not know that he had followed her to the Borowski house so closely as to disprove her lie on his behalf. Fred decided to let her stew in her own juice for a while, whatever her reason for lying. He walked her back to the door, ignoring as she did the looks that came their way.
At the blind corner that was the scene of countless spilled cups of coffee, they collided with three men who were as oblivious to Lisa as she was to them. Kyle Pruitt recovered first, but not even he gave her more than an automatic apology. Captain Warren Altschuler, chief of detectives, didn’t bother.
“My office, Lundquist,” he said over his shoulder. “Come in, Sam.”
20
Fred followed Sam Wade into the captain’s office. The door closed in Kyle Pruitt’s face, but not on his mouth, Fred was sure. The whole squadroom would know what was up before he did.
He was wrong.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, sending Pruitt to grill my secretary?” Sam exploded. “I got there this morning and found myself murder suspect number one, with the whole staff drinking it in.”
“What’s this all about, Fred?” Altschuler asked, somewhat more mildly. “I told Sam this was the first I’d heard he was under suspicion of any kind.”
Fred looked down at the stocky, pug-nosed captain, his homely face the antithesis of Sam’s polished good looks.
“He’s not. Just what did Pruitt say?”
“It wasn’t what he said, it was what he did. He had Maxine going through her log for Saturday morning, accounting for every ten minutes of Sam’s time. What was he even doing in that office?”
Fred sighed. Kyle himself had known better. I should have listened to him, he thought.
“Making a mountain out of a molehill, it sounds like. We’ve narrowed the Borowski murder down to a ten-minute period. I sent him out with a list of orchestra personnel to thin out the possibles. We even rehearsed what he’d say to the players before asking them about times, but I guess he knew better than to try to snow Maxine. Besides, he knew Sam already told us what he could about Petris and Borowski. He was just there to confirm it.” He gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry if he made it into a major scene. Kyle gets a little carried away sometimes. I’ll talk to him.”
The apology cost him something, even though every word was true.
He intercepted an exchange of glances between the chief and the prosecutor. At Sam’s almost imperceptible nod, Altschuler let fly.
“Let’s get something straight and let’s get it straight right now. We are seriously undermanned and we all know that the Petris thing is a crock. I left you on Borowski because you’d already spent time on the kid who called it in. Maybe the husband killed her, maybe the kid killed her, I don’t know. What I do know is that you’re grasping at straws to make connections with this crazy idea about the orchestra. Forget it. Stick to Borowski. I want some solid facts and I want them soon. Is that clear?”
It was clear, all right. So clear that something inside Fred snapped and the resentment he’d been swallowing for years poured over him. He was the dumb Democrat Swede to be passed over for promotions. Lundquist the has-been, hanging onto press clippings as if they meant something. Good enough for crocks, not crooks. Ready for the golden handshake Elmer Rush had resented.
“Oh, sure.” He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness he felt. “It’s clear. You want me to blow it, so you can say I don’t have what it takes anymore. But as long as I’m on the force, I’m going to give it my damnedest, no matter what you think.
“You both asked me to check out Nakamura’s fish story. And now that I’ve got some evidence it’s not so crazy after all, you say forget it. If I forget Petris, I might as well forget Borowski. As far as I’m concerned, everybody in the room when Petris collapsed is a suspect in both cases. Not the only ones, by a long shot, but the best ones I have right now.”
He’d been looking from one man to the other. Now he turned to Altschuler.
“Why you want me to avoid clearing Sam I can’t imagine,” he said. “I always thought you two were on the same side of the fence. But what do I know? You want me to leave him on the list or you want to get the hell out of my way and let me work?”
He towered over Altschuler, who stood up to the onslaught without flinching, but the chief’s answering glare flickered briefly, and Fred saw Sam’s eyes rolling wearily toward the ceiling. Humor him, the eyes said. Or maybe it was, Oh God, there goes the hothead again. Altschuler’s mouth was moving.
“… blown out of all proportion. I have great respect for your abilities, Fred, you know that. But sending Pruitt on a routine check is like going after flies with an elephant swatter. If you really think all this legwork is necessary, take Ketcham. He’ll cover twice the ground in half the time.”
Older and subtler, Ketcham would have been Fred’s choice in the first place.
“All right,” he said, his heart still pounding. “Do I have to clear every move he makes with the prosecuting attorney’s office?”
Sam reached out a conciliatory hand. “I’ll tell Maxine to relax. You have my full support.”
And I’ll want yours on election day, that’s the rest of the speech. Fred fought down his anger and returned the obligatory handshake.
At his desk a few minutes later, a dozen retorts he might have made crowded into his mind, followed immediately by some of the things he actually had said. The early retirement that had looked so tempting only a week or so before suddenly loomed as disciplinary action—another thing altogether. Dumb Swede, he told himself. Now look what you’ve done. Sam’s “full support,” he suspected, would hold up only until some fat cat political contributor squawked at being questioned.
He called Kyle Pruitt over, told him bluntly that he’d been replaced, and asked how far he’d made it down the list before hitting the prosecutor’s office.
Pruitt’s face was bright pink. “I’m real sorry about that,” he said. “That Maxine tore into me so loud, the whole office heard her.”
“It happens. What did you learn?”
“I found these two,” Kyle said, pointing to the first two viola players, who according to Joan’s lopsided map sat immediately in front of the oboes. “They both give violin lessons to little kids all Saturday morning. No breaks. Parents sit in. I got the names of the kids who were there from ten-thirty until eleven-thirty.”
“Good. If we’re lucky, there will be more like them. What else?”
“Then I ran into Maxine.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Oh, sure. Wade’s clear. She logs the people in that office within an inch of their lives. They say over there she knows more than God. That’s what got her so mad. She wanted me to take her word for it, but I made her show me the log. Wade came over here at ten-fifteen Saturday and she logged him back in at ten-fifty-eight. According to our desk, he left here at half past ten.”
“And his car was in the shop Saturday,” Fred said. “Not that he might not have walked anyway.” They both knew that Sam Wade preached physical fitness. Kyle had been the recipient of more than one sermon on the subject. Even Sam’s brisk pace, however, wouldn’t have allowed him to kill Wanda Borowski at ten-fifty, mop up the blood, and arrive back in his office eight minutes later.
“Thanks, Kyle.”
Fred sat for long minutes, drained but not relieved by his outburst. Being right didn’t ease the almost physical pain of knowing how low he really ranked. A heaviness lodged itself under his breastbone, and the back of his throat tightened. For all his defiant words, he wanted nothing more than to curl up and quit.
Ketcham was out. Fred left him a note and took the personnel list, chiefly as an excuse to escape the building. Ethel Cykler, the second bassoonist, would complete the ring of players who had surrounded George Petris. Her address, 9799 North Alcorn Road, meant she lived several miles out of town. Rural residents were still complaining about the new post office re
gulation that had done away with rural route box numbers, but the police were discovering that street addresses greatly simplified the job of finding them at home. Come to think of it, he thought, maybe that’s what they’re complaining about.
Hillsides of yellow and green tipped with the flames of oaks and sugar maples and dotted with the deeper reds of sumac and dogwood lifted his spirits as he drove. When he caught himself whistling as if he’d just received a promotion instead of a dressing down, he resolved not to hurry back.
Joan’s message lay unread on his cluttered desk.
21
Ethel Cykler, wearing only a red tank suit and hoop earrings, was pushing an old people-powered mower around the patchy grass in front of her ramshackle farmhouse. Stately maples and stumps of substantial elms testified to better days. Potatoes and onions lay drying in a garden bordered by rhubarb and asparagus fern. Guinea hens shrieked warning when Fred turned into the driveway.
He saw her look up, but she completed her circle around the yard, toes dug into the grass and stringy arm muscles straining. He waited in the car, shutting off the engine so that she’d know he wasn’t merely using her drive as a convenient turnaround on the narrow gravel road. He hadn’t seen a dog yet, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Mrs. Cykler?” he called.
“Mother’s dead. I’m Ethel,” she answered, finally walking over to the car. He got out.
“Detective Lieutenant Lundquist, Oliver police. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“I’ve been looking for a reason to rest my feet,” she said. “You’ll do. Want some water?”
“Please.”
They sat in hickory split chairs on the shady porch sipping well water as if it were mint juleps, she apparently unself-conscious in her bathing suit and calloused bare feet. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair a mass of sweat-dampened gray curls plastered to her head. Skinny and hard, she had a face full of lines, whether from age or sun and wind he couldn’t tell. Tough old bird, he thought, wondering whether he could come within a dozen years of guessing how old.
“Think you’ll know me next time?” she asked sharply.
“Sorry.” He felt his face go hot. “Habit, I guess,” he said, knowing that it wasn’t. A cop’s habit sized people up quickly, rather than staring at them until they felt it.
She finished her water and began drumming her fingers on her knee, but he didn’t want to get to his reason for coming. Maybe this was his reason, just the sitting on this porch, watching the leaves turn. He wrenched his thoughts back to that bloody room, back to the sturdy little girls who had comforted their father.
“Miss Cykler,” he began.
“Ethel.”
He nodded. “How well did you know Wanda Borowski?”
“Depends on what you mean by well. We saw each other every Wednesday night most weeks out of the past ten years. Played chamber music a few times. I can’t say as I really knew her, but we were acquainted, don’t you know. We weren’t friends.”
“Is that typical?”
“Of what?”
“Her, you, the orchestra—take your pick.”
“Orchestra.” She snorted. “I’ve played in that orchestra fifteen years this fall. Up to last week I would’ve called Alex Campbell a friend. Then Mr. Charming California walked in and took over. You want to know something? When a good-looking man comes along, never mind how old, friends aren’t worth chicken feed. I found that out.”
He nodded and sipped. It occurred to him that if Elmer Rush had been poisoned, Ethel would have been a prime candidate.
“Fifteen years and I’m right back to second bassoon. I almost walked out, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Besides, the old coot can’t hang on forever. I’ll outlast him, you watch.” She was breathing fire now. Interruptions weren’t likely to break the flow.
“Were there other changes this year?”
“Some new people, but nobody else got bumped.”
Unless you count Borowski and Petris, he thought.
“You’ll be needing two principal players now, won’t you?” he asked.
“She’ll find them.”
“You don’t think she’ll promote the second flute and oboe?”
“I’m done guessing. I wouldn’t put it past her to bring in Eskimos. Might as well call it the Drop-In Symphony as the Oliver, for all it means.”
“You sit behind the oboes, is that right?”
“If I bother to sit anywhere again.” She was having a high old time. He wondered how many people she’d unloaded this on.
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary last Wednesday night?”
“I saw a man sicken to die. Is that what you mean?”
“Starting before that.”
“Can’t think of a thing.”
“Did Wanda Borowski mention anything to you after she packed up the oboe?”
“Not a word.”
“Tell me how it was.”
Ethel’s description of the rehearsal differed from the others he had heard only in the angle from which she had viewed it. She had passed up the punch table to slip outdoors for a quick cigarette during the break.
“I can tell you who all was out there, if you want to know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. For the moment, I’m more interested in those of you who sat near Petris and Mrs. Borowski. Tell me, did you by chance see her on Saturday?”
“Didn’t see anybody. Too busy.”
“Busy?”
“Puttin’ up applesauce. Twenty-eight quarts. I about melted, it was so hot.”
“All by yourself?”
“Do I look as if I couldn’t?” She was not amused. “Been doin’ it alone since Mother had her stroke. She used to help some before that.”
“Nobody dropped in that day?”
“Folks don’t, mostly. I count it a big social occasion when the mail carrier honks. He likes to do that when there’s something worth making a trip down to the box for.”
“Did he honk Saturday?”
“No, he just waved and went on by.”
“And what time was that?”
“About noon. I was sitting out here quartering apples, to get away from the kitchen. What do you want to know all this for? I didn’t make a quick run into town and kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You’ve seen the paper, then,” he said.
“Yes, and the TV. I saw you were looking into what happened to old George, too. Why do you think I’ve let you waste my time like this? But I don’t see why you’re so interested in who sits where.”
“You may be right,” he said. “It may be pure coincidence that two people who sat next to each other in the orchestra died so close together, but we’d still like to ask you to be extra careful for a while.”
“She was murdered in her own bedroom, wasn’t she?” Ethel looked him straight in the eye.
“Yes.”
“What do you suggest I do, quit sleeping?” She nodded triumphantly. “Just how hard do you expect it would be to get into this house? Back when it was built, the only lock anyone around here ever used was a shotgun—and I don’t hold with that. Too easy to use against you. Besides, it seems to me that the people who ought to be careful are the ones who saw George drink that poison, and I wasn’t there. For all I know, Wanda was right next to him then, too. Maybe you can get the word out to the murderer that I don’t know a thing.”
Was she laughing at him? He couldn’t tell, but he took it seriously.
“I’ll try. In the meantime, you’d be wise to talk that way yourself. Tell it around that you’ve already given the police everything you know and that they say you had no new evidence.”
“I never see anyone to tell. Think I should hang a note out for the mailman?” Again, he saw that triumphant gleam in her eye.
“You might just mention it at orchestra next week.”
She hmphed.
By the time he left, she was midway around the
yard again. He reflected that a conductor’s lot might at times be unhappier than a policeman’s. Imagine having to bust Ethel Cykler down to second bassoon.
He made a mental note to check with her mailman and to talk to Bob Peterson at the Courier about “protection” for Ethel—and the others, for that matter. He couldn’t name names; that might endanger players not mentioned. It would have to be an innocuous little statement in the context that no evidence had turned up to convince the police that Petris had been murdered. No, that was too strong—murder hadn’t been mentioned there yet. He’d work it out with Bob.
He mulled over what Ethel had said. Only Wanda’s murder was making him think of the circle of people around George Petris as more likely suspects—or potential victims—than anyone else in the orchestra. Long experience had taught him to distrust coincidence, but it could have been only coincidence. Captain Altschuler might be right that these were two entirely separate cases, united only by proximity. Ethel’s idea that Wanda was standing next to George when he picked up his drink seemed more probable, he thought, and with luck he could even check it.
And then there was the oboe, or rather, there wasn’t. The disappearing oboe connected the two deaths without question. But who would kill to get it? Not Daniel—all he’d have to do was ask for it. Might Wanda have noticed something about the oboe, rather than something during the rehearsal? And blurted it out to Daniel, who then silenced her with the reed knife and got rid of the oboe before calling the police? Or maybe she figured out something unrelated to the oboe, something about Daniel and his father, and he used the reed knife and got rid of it and the oboe along with it.
If Daniel had told the simple truth, though, someone else had wanted that oboe badly enough to kill for it. Not for money—not with cash and silver left behind. Sentiment seemed unlikely, too, unless Lisa Wallston was a more talented liar than he thought or the former Mrs. Petris was playing jet-set tricks. Even as he rejected the notion that she had made a flying trip to Oliver, unnoticed by anyone, he pulled over to the side of the road and wrote himself a cryptic message in the little notebook with which he clung to sanity and details: “Chk wife CA.” Ketcham could handle that one. He never would have been able to explain it to Pruitt.
Murder in C Major Page 14