“It never came up.”
“I’ll do some checking.” He spoke more gently. “I’m still following some other leads, Joan. I won’t forget them. But be careful. If I’m right about Rush, that sweet old man gulled Wanda Borowski into letting him into her very bedroom before he killed her. My guess is that he asked to see the oboe.”
“A bassoon player might want one.” Joan was trying to think rationally. “Some double reed players do play all three—oboe, English horn, and bassoon. She’d believe him if he said he was interested in buying it. He could say he’d talked to Daniel and was picking it up to try it out. After all, it wasn’t Wanda’s to sell. But he wouldn’t know that Daniel had just called her to say he was on his way to pick it up himself. She probably blurted it out.”
“Maybe even challenged his story. Could be.”
“So he killed her to keep her from telling.”
“And to give himself a chance to dispose of the evidence. Only by now he knows he didn’t get it all.”
Joan looked at the reeds again and shuddered.
She was home and in bed before it hit her that the biggest mouth in town knew who had really taken them home.
25
Fred Lundquist buttered his third slice of toast and opened Tuesday morning’s Courier to Peterson’s latest story. No longer front page news, the Borowski murder investigation rated only a few column inches and an 18-point headline. Bob had done a convincing job of portraying the police as stymied for lack of evidence. He quoted Ethel Cykler directly. Her remarks cut through his vague intimations of a phantom with a grudge against wind players.
“ ‘You ask me, I’ll tell you. I think George Petris just up and died. It beats me how you could think a sick man has anything to do with a woman who gets her throat cut in her own bedroom. The police ought to quit asking silly questions and find that maniac before he kills somebody else,’ Ms. Cykler told this reporter,” the article ran.
Fred winced. That should take care of Ethel, he thought, but it added one more stone to the load he felt dragging him down. Altschuler would probably chew him out again, and he didn’t think explaining was likely to improve matters. He lavished strawberry jam on his toast, but he might have been eating sand.
A few days earlier he would have been crowing about the evidence he expected to find in the reed bottle Joan had brought in. Today he doubted his ability to find it, and his own speculation about Elmer Rush was beginning to seem as farfetched to him as it had to her. Yet she had stood up to the possibility, distasteful though it obviously was to her. Hadn’t seemed to hold it against him, either. So why wasn’t he eager to follow through?
The heaviness in his chest told him it was because he didn’t want to face Altschuler and Wade. Snap out of it, Lundquist, he preached. There’s nothing new about this, except this time they said it to your face instead of behind your back. You haven’t changed.
But he knew he had. The night before, he had scarcely been listening to Joan, even as he had automatically pieced together a case against Rush that had finally convinced her. He’d ordered a patrol for her house and then put the whole thing out of his mind and settled down to watch the Cubs lose one last game to Cincinnati. He no longer cared. Only the belief that the murderer might kill again was making him even go through the motions.
No one penetrated his gloom with so much as a greeting when he dragged into work late. Ketcham, shrewder than he was generally credited with being, stood silently drinking coffee. Fred flipped through his little notebook, deciding what to delegate.
“You remember I asked you the other day about a Seville,” he said finally.
Ketcham gulped the last of his coffee and crumpled the cup. “Yeah.”
“Just for kicks, go down the orchestra personnel list and see how many other matches you can make with these cars.” He tore a page out of the notebook. “A ’59 Corvette, a green Rabbit—probably at least five years old, a pink Pinto, a new red Skylark, and an old Ford pickup, also red. Start with the people and give me anything close.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Ketcham disappeared with the list, not pushing for more than Fred wanted to tell.
The pathologist didn’t answer his call, but Professor Werner invited him to bring his sample over to the lab to test it for TTX.
“I’m preparing a frog this morning anyway. If your stuff acts like my stuff, that ought to be pretty good confirmation. We can document it with photographs. Got a Polaroid?”
“I’ll bring one.”
The phone rang as soon as he put the receiver down. He was startled to hear Catherine’s voice. Listening to her musical laugh, he wondered how it had held him and realized with some satisfaction that he had not once thought of her since she had last hung up on him. Otherwise occupied, he had managed to forget to apologize again for the sourdough debacle. It didn’t matter.
“You poor dear.” She had gone from furious to coy without benefit of flowers. “I read all about it. I understand completely. I want you to let me fix you a perfectly scrumptious lunch today—I know you never eat right when you’re on a big case. I just won’t take no for an answer. About eleven?”
“Sure, Catherine,” he said. “Why not? Thanks.”
“Bye, now.” Her laugh tinkled in his ear again.
Where does she get that “big case” nonsense? he wondered. Only reason I have this one is that nobody else expected it to be anything but a nuisance. It had indeed been a nuisance to Catherine. The least he could do was show up and act civil.
An hour later, he was standing over Professor Werner in the lab, looking down at a frog blanketed by a wet paper towel. In his pocket Fred fingered the test tube into which he had decanted less than a teaspoonful of the water from the reed bottle. Much of the intervening time had been taken up with forms—to check out the Polaroid, to requisition film for it, even to requisition the test tube. The only thing he hadn’t had to fill out in triplicate was a request for the water. He shook his head at the wonderful bureaucracy that was more concerned about pilfered test tubes than about preserving the chain of evidence. At the last minute, his innate caution had prompted him to do it right. He had interrupted Ketcham’s search to have him witness the transfer of fluid and had asked him to come takes notes at the lab.
The three men were cramped inside a small metal mesh enclosure. Werner explained that it screened out electrical interference from lights, motors, and recording equipment.
“The electrical signals I’m measuring here are so weak that they’re covered up by anything from outside. Now let’s see … I guess for your purpose, we can use plain air as a stimulant. All you want to know is the difference between how the frog responds to a puff of air before we give it some of your sample and how it responds afterwards. So, I’ll aim a little puff right now. Keep your eye on the oscilloscope. It’s a nice machine. I got it surplus from Purdue when they bought a fancy new model.”
A wobbly line on the screen exploded into spikes and valleys, and then tapered back to what it had been.
“That’s the response you get to air before you administer the TTX,” Werner said. “Got your camera? We’ll do it again.”
Laying the print on a shelf to dry, proof that the frog had been free of tetrodotoxin when they arrived, Fred handed over the test tube.
“Will this be enough?”
“If it’s any concentration at all, a drop is more than we need.”
With a syringe that looked like a fever thermometer, the plunger a thin wire through the middle and the needle almost invisible, Werner injected a tiny amount of the liquid into the exposed brain tissue.
“I’m probably fussier about this than I need to be, but I always try to keep the TTX away from the afferent nerves. I want it to affect only the post-synaptic neurons, the voltage-dependent sodium channels.”
Ketcham’s pen had been moving steadily. Now it stopped.
“Could you spell a couple of those
for me, sir?” he asked.
“Sorry,” Werner said. “You don’t want all that. Just write that I put some of your sample in the frog’s olfactory bulb. O L and factory. One word.”
The effect was rapid. By the third puff of air, five minutes after the first, the dramatic spikes on the oscilloscope had flattened out. The wobbly line rose smoothly and fell again, drawing a single gentle hill on the screen.
Werner’s shoulders drooped.
“Damn,” he said quietly.
“Sir?” said Ketcham.
“I’d been hoping … well, never mind. What’s done is done. The stuff you have there is almost certainly from my lab.”
“Couldn’t anything else do that?” Fred asked.
“Not really, not in that tiny amount. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where you found it.”
“Not just now,” Fred said.
“Figured as much. Well, let’s get the picture. I’ll give you some prints of results I got with TTX. You’ll see that they’re identical to these. You’ll be able to confirm it chemically. The chemical structure of TTX is unique.”
The clock in the ivy-covered bell tower struck eleven as Ketcham and Lundquist left the biology building. They walked in silence to Fred’s Chevy.
“You drive, Johnny,” he said, handing over the keys and climbing into the passenger seat. “Drop me at Catherine’s, will you? I’ll walk back after lunch.”
Catherine didn’t look like a woman who had spent the morning slaving over a hot stove. Only her fiery hair looked anything but cool and crisp, and she had contained it sleekly with a ribbon. She had, however, gone all out. Although he had never figured out what she put into the savory dish she served him, Fred recognized its creamy sauce and resolved to do it justice. Crisp green salad with fresh herb dressing complemented the rich casserole. She hadn’t wasted on him the frilly touches that made Oliver hostesses compete for her decorative platters, but the fruit bowl, he knew, had been arranged as much by color as by taste. He began to relax.
“Like it?” she asked.
“You know I do. You’re a terrific cook, Catherine.”
“As good as that Mrs. Spencer?” She smirked at him. “I hear you’ve been sampling her goodies.”
With difficulty, Fred resisted the almost overwhelming temptation to hit her or stalk out. He should have known what was coming.
“Catherine, don’t get started.” He could feel the cream curdling in his stomach.
“Get started? What do you mean?” Her voice dripped honey. “Surely it’s no secret that you’ve been seeing her, or is it? I heard you were turning into bosom buddies. I’d like to know where that leaves me.”
Fred put down his fork.
“Since you brought it up, that leaves you sounding like a woman who wants to run my life. Maybe this is news to you, Catherine. I plan to run my own life and choose my own friends. I won’t dance for a jealous woman who wants to pull puppet strings. I don’t know many men who would.”
“Don’t you? No wonder you can’t solve that murder.” Her eyes glinted.
Fred stood up, abandoning dinner entirely.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
For a moment, he thought she was going to engage in a childish game of “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Whether she was intimidated or couldn’t resist the gossip, he couldn’t tell, but she answered him.
“For goodness sake, Fred, I’m only saying what everyone knows, and you would, too, if you understood anything about people at all.”
“Catherine …” He stared her down.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that Sam Wade jumps every time Evelyn pulls a string, as you put it? I can’t see what he sees in her, but she’s had him hook, line, and sinker ever since they were kids. Of course, a good-looking man like that is always going to have—shall we call them admirers? And he’s no saint, but Evelyn knows just how far to let his line run out before she reels him in again. She expects big things of him. The White House, some say. I wouldn’t put it past her to get rid of anybody Sam took a serious interest in. You’d hardly expect him to look sideways at that boring little Mrs. Borowski, but you never know. Still waters run deep.”
Mighty deep, Fred thought. Not a word of this particular scandal had reached him, for all the calls he’d had about the philandering George Petris. Not that it couldn’t be true.
“Catherine, are you seriously suggesting that Sam Wade was having an affair with Wanda Borowski and that Evelyn got jealous and killed her?”
“I didn’t say she was jealous. I’d be surprised if she cared whose bed he parks his shoes under, but if she thought he was about to wreck his political future by messing around with a married woman too close to home, she just might. She’s put too much time and energy into Sam to let him get away now.”
Like an investment, Fred thought. Evelyn would not be one to cut her losses. Was that what Catherine was doing? Or didn’t she realize what she was revealing of herself?
He opened his mouth to contradict her, remembered the blue Seville, and shut it again.
“Fred, your dinner’s getting cold,” Catherine reproached him.
“I’m sorry, Catherine. I have to leave,” he blurted, and did.
He was glad to be on foot. Behind a wheel, he probably would have run down the first poor slob who looked at him crooked. Gradually, his jerky, angry strides began to fall into a rhythm that eased his tension. He swung along with no particular goal in mind except to get away from Catherine.
By the time he heard the college chimes strike noon, he felt ready to face another human being, if not yet Altschuler and Wade. He took a chance on finding Martha Lambert at home alone.
She came to the door smiling and wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Why, hello, Lieutenant,” she said. “Won’t you come in? You just missed my father. He took Julie out for the afternoon.”
She held the door for him and swiped at the dog hairs on the sofa with the towel.
“That’s fine,” he said, sitting down. “This time I came to see you. Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you.” She sat on the arm of the sofa. “I feel a little silly about the other day. It was one of his bad days. They don’t happen often, but when they do, I lose all perspective. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“It was no bother. That’s what we’re here for. You kept that phone number I gave you, I hope.”
Her hand flashed to her bosom.
“Yes.” Good.
“I have just a couple of questions.”
“Anything, if it will help you.”
When he left her, he headed directly for the hospital. Negotiating with practiced ease the maze of temporary corridors born of new construction, he found the pathologist in his laboratory.
“Good to see you, Fred,” Dr. Henshaw said, stripping a pair of thin rubber gloves from his fingers and tossing them into a plastic-lined wastebasket. “I was going to send some results over to you, but this makes it easier.”
“Actually, I came to ask whether you’d tested the exhibits I sent you the other day for blood.”
“Funny, that’s just what I was going to tell you. Is that the message you left this morning?”
“No, that’s another story entirely. We seem to have found the poison that did in George Petris. Professor Werner provided pretty conclusive evidence that it’s the TTX he uses.”
“Good thing. I couldn’t have done it so fast. Let me show you what we did find.”
The shift had changed when Fred returned to the station, whistling. So had the very air he breathed.
Kyle Pruitt, on his way out the door, grinned at him and said, “Hi ya, Lieutenant. How’s it going?”
“Hello, Kyle,” Fred said. “Not bad, not bad at all. Is Altschuler in?”
“Yeah, but I think he’s about to take off.”
“Then I’m just in time.”
Fred flipped quickly through the notes on his desk. Ketcham had
left one phone memo, from the San Jose police. Mrs. Petris, they said, had been housebound for more than a week with a broken leg. The police ambulance had taken her to the emergency room the previous Monday. A briefer note summarized the results of Ketcham’s vehicle registration search.
Sergeant Pruitt would have been astonished to learn that the tune the lieutenant was whistling when he arrived—and when he knocked on the captain’s door—was the oboe solo from the second movement of Schubert’s C Major Symphony, the “Great.”
26
Joan dreaded Wednesday’s rehearsal. She drew the line at riding with Nancy. Not wanting to explain, she talked Andrew into phoning for her after breakfast that morning. He dragged his feet.
“Why?” he asked. “What am I supposed to say?”
“You don’t know why. You don’t have to lie.”
“Can I tell her you’re coming?”
“If she asks.”
He carried it off with aplomb, hung up, and turned on her.
“I thought she was your best friend.”
That stung.
“I don’t seem to have a best friend anymore.”
“You have me.” He hugged her less clumsily than usual.
“Aw,” she said, hugging him back.
“Aw,” he echoed, and grinned. “Gotta go, Mom. Don’t wait supper tonight. I promised Mr. Werner I’d work in the lab. I’ll grab something.”
“Move the dirty socks off the sofa first!” But he was gone.
All day she felt uneasy. By the time Henry Skomp finally arrived to pick up his mother, Joan was leery enough of walking home alone to accept the ride he offered.
Without Andrew, the little house was quiet. She was tempted to flick on the radio, but she resisted, determined to get in half an hour’s practicing before supper. Reaching into the box of music folders for the one in which she had marked her fingerings, she felt again her shock at finding the bottle of reeds there. Suddenly, Elmer’s behavior at the center on Monday made sense. She dropped the music and dialed Fred’s number.
She barely recognized his cheery hello.
Murder in C Major Page 17