“Fred, is that you?”
“Sure is. What’s up?”
“You—you said you’d give me back the reeds so I could give them to you at rehearsal.”
“I’ll stop by before you leave. Ten past seven okay?”
“I’d better go a little earlier, since I have all the music. And, Fred—I’ve figured out something about Elmer.”
“Tell me when I get there.” He hung up.
No longer in any mood to practice, or cook, either, she gave in to the radio after all, changed to jeans and sneakers, and made a meal of leftovers.
Fred arrived at seven in a suit and tie. He presented the reed bottle with a flourish.
“Want me to carry the music?” he offered.
“Yes. No. Please, won’t you just sit down and listen for a minute?”
He sat, pulling up the crease in each trouser leg and straightening his tie.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m listening.”
What had gotten into him? Joan plunged ahead.
“You remember asking me if I’d ever seen Elmer angry?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And I said I had, once. I didn’t tell you it was only the other day. He came into the center when I should have been on my way home, and he was furious. I was stuck there waiting for one of our adult day care people to be picked up. I got the impression that someone had said something unkind about Julie. He jumped all over me about how people don’t care. Finally, Henry Skomp came to pick up his mother and offered me a ride home. Elmer disappeared.
“But suppose he knew I had the bottle. Nancy might have mentioned it. He must have been expecting to find me there alone, or even walking home. If the Skomps hadn’t been in the way, he would have offered me a ride and I probably would have accepted and invited him in. Now I have to go to that rehearsal. Fred, I don’t want to go.”
“But you’re all right. And you will be, I promise. Trust me.” His eyes crinkled at the edges. He leaned toward her. “Here’s what I need for you to do tonight.”
The box of music pulled on Joan’s right arm. Her shoulder bag bumped the hand that carried the viola. Parking at the far end of the lot from the cars huddled near the entrance had seemed the cautious thing to do, especially when she had recognized Nancy’s Olds and Elmer’s VW side by side. Fred’s Chevy was next in line, though, she saw when she came closer.
Still puzzled, she stopped to switch hands. Her role was clear. But what could have changed the morose man she had seen Monday night to this almost offensively self-confident one?
In the auditorium, she didn’t see him at first. She handed the music up to Yoichi, who began setting folders out on the stands. Then she checked her strings against the tuning fork in her case. It was much easier than tuning with trumpets noodling behind her. Hugging her shoulder bag as if it contained diamonds, she climbed to the stage and looked around.
There in place of George Petris sat Fred Lundquist, holding a curved soprano saxophone, of all things. He might have told me, she thought. No wonder he looked so smug. Wherever did he find a soprano—a curved one at that?
She wondered whether he would actually try to play. In his big hands, the little sax looked more like a meerschaum pipe than a real instrument. It could probably hit the notes—she wasn’t sure how high a soprano went. He’d have to transpose, though. The oboe part would be written in concert pitch, and she knew the soprano sax was a B-flat instrument.
Gradually, the other players were taking their places. Joan thought the second flutist had moved up to first. It looked as if most people had shown up, but the usual chatter was subdued.
Yoichi, handing out the last folders to the basses and cellos, saw her coming.
“Thank you for marking the bowings,” he said, with his pixie smile.
“You’re welcome. Do you need me now?”
“No. We are ready.”
Joan sat down beside John Hocking, who was staring openly at Fred and the sax.
“What won’t they think of next?” he said. “You supposed we’ll tune to a B-flat?”
“No, here comes Sam,” she said.
Sam Wade raised an inquiring eyebrow at Fred.
“Evening, Sam,” Fred said. “I’m playing George Petris tonight.”
“Play it any way you want to,” Sam said. He set a shot glass full of water and reeds on the floor, sat down, ran a feather through the pieces of his oboe, and began fitting them together. Sucking on a reed, he stood the instrument on its six-legged support while he closed the case and sorted through the music on his stand. Joan watched, fascinated.
The concertmaster, whose name Joan still hadn’t learned, stood, hesitated only a moment, and then pointed his bow at Sam for the long A. Sam put the reed into the top of his oboe, blew a couple of quick runs, and held the tuning fork to his ear.
Joan checked her tuning quickly. She made one small adjustment and sat back in comfort before the first brass note barged in.
Finally, Alex Campbell mounted the podium.
“You all know what happened this week,” she said simply. “We have lost two fine musicians.”
Thank you, Joan thought, for not pretending.
“A Requiem Mass will be said for Wanda Borowski tomorrow at St. Paul’s. You may want to contribute toward the cost of flowers from the orchestra. There will be no services for George Petris. We’re contributing in his memory to the Oliver College scholarship fund.” She paused. “Some people have suggested dedicating this first concert of the season to George and Wanda. If you are in favor of doing so, would you please stand?”
One by one, in silence, the entire orchestra rose. Alex waited a long moment. Then she nodded, and they took their seats again. A lump swelled in Joan’s throat. The formal gesture went a long way toward erasing her bitterness about the comments she had heard after George was taken away.
“We have been asked to do one thing more,” Alex said. “I think we owe it to George. Detective Lieutenant Lundquist will explain what he needs. Lieutenant?”
She stepped down and Fred stood among the woodwinds.
“Thank you,” he said. “You probably already know that I am in charge of investigating both these deaths. I’m at a considerable disadvantage with respect to Mr. Petris. By the time the police were called in, all of you had gone about your business and the janitor had cleaned the building. We’ve talked with some of you, but it would help if we could see where people were and what they were doing in the last few minutes before he was taken ill.” He turned around. “Sergeant Ketcham, where are you?”
“Back here,” a deep voice called from behind the basses. Looking back, Joan was surprised to see Evelyn Wade and Glenda Wallston standing at the refreshment table. Their bowl and platter were empty, but they had set out cups and stood ready to serve imaginary punch and cookies. Beside them, a middle-aged man in a dark suit and wire-rimmed glasses held a notebook and pencil.
“What if I don’t want to?” asked one of the young second violinists. His voice shook.
“You don’t have to,” Fred answered. “This is entirely voluntary. If you aren’t planning to participate, I’d appreciate it if you’d sit back in the audience for a few minutes. Unless …” He looked to the conductor.
“That should work,” Alex said. “Go behind the rows where people leave their cases, Tad. No one spends the intermission back there.”
“It’s all right,” the boy muttered. “I guess I’ll do it.”
“Come to think of it, you’d better all know your rights,” Fred said. “Read ’em the Miranda, would you, Johnny?”
Sergeant Ketcham obliged, reading constitutional rights to silence and the advice of a court-appointed lawyer, all in a bored voice.
“Anyone else?” Fred asked. No one moved. “Then please do whatever you did at the beginning of the intermission last week. I’ll represent George Petris. You’ll need to tell me what to do.”
Joan was puzzled. Why this game? But the others were already beginning to move.
“Yo
u put away your instrument and start over to the refreshments,” Sam directed Fred.
“No, before that you must have put the lid on your reeds,” Joan said. “I found them this way when I fell.” She gave him the prescription bottle from her purse. He took it, put the sax in its case, and walked back toward the table.
Joan left John and Sam sitting, took an empty cup herself, wishing for real ice, spoke to Yoichi, and walked around the orchestra pretending to put music on the stands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sergeant Ketcham taking notes. Only when she came back to her seat did she again remember her headlong plunge into Sam Wade’s lap. Even in blue jeans, she couldn’t bring herself to repeat it intentionally.
His eyes smiled at her. He, too, had remembered.
“Sam, I can’t,” she said.
“Sure you can,” said John Hocking. “Fake it. Knock down the stand, anyway, and whack the chairs a little.”
Suddenly, it was a relief to be asked to do something destructive. With abandon, Joan lashed out at the stand, sent the music flying, and skidded Fred’s chair back into Elmer’s, spilling the water in which Elmer’s reed was soaking. A thin stream trickled towards the pages on the floor.
“Grab the music!” Joan made a dive for it.
Fred loomed over her. “What on earth?”
“Come on, Fred, help pick it up!” She scrabbled on her hands and knees, rescuing the precious rented pages. Sam helped. Fred just watched, as did other orchestra members close enough to notice the commotion.
“You’re supposed to yell at her,” John commented. “That’s what George did.”
“Is that right?” Fred asked her. “This happened last week, too?”
“More or less. He did shout, but I got carried away tonight. Last week most of the damage I did was to my nylons. It would have been worse if Sam hadn’t caught me.”
“My pleasure,” Sam said, with that smile that left her weak-kneed.
“And after that?” Fred pursued it.
“After that I put everything back and about then I think we started the second half.”
“Okay, let’s do it.” Fred spoke quietly to Alex, who called to Yoichi. The players who had left the stage straggled back with relative speed.
The concertmaster rose to tune, but sat down in embarrassment when his stand partner reminded him that he had been too late the week before.
To Joan’s right, Fred had opened the bottle of reeds and was offering it to Sam.
“Thanks,” Sam said. “I can use them. Say, Elmer, this one’s yours.” He stretched to pass the bottle to Elmer.
“I wondered where that went,” Elmer said, reaching forward to pick out the unfinished bassoon reed.
“Stop right there,” said Fred, his long arm catching Elmer’s hand before it touched the reed.
“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.” Sergeant Ketcham plucked the bottle from Sam’s hand.
“What’s going on?” a dozen voices demanded, Elmer’s and Sam’s among them.
Fred was on his feet.
“Gideon Samuel Wade, you’re under arrest. Before I ask you any questions, I must advise you of your constitutional rights. You must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent—”
“I know my rights, Fred,” Sam interrupted. “What’s all this?”
A wail came from backstage.
“You’re crazy! Sam, stop him!”
Gone was Evelyn’s reserve. Eyes blazing, hair flying, her dress catching on the music stands she shoved out of her way, she pushed to the front.
“Sam, say something!”
He put out a hand toward her, palm down. “Calm down, Evelyn.”
“Just a minute, please, ma’am,” Fred said formally. “I have to do this right. I’m not going to get this one thrown out of court. Sam, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court.”
“Sam, your career! You can’t let him do this!” Evelyn cried.
“This is ridiculous,” Sam began, but Fred cut him off.
“You know you’d be the first to insist on it,” he said. “You have the right to talk with a lawyer for advice before I ask you any questions and to have him present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you during any questioning, if you wish.”
“I can afford a lawyer.”
“If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you will still have the right to stop answering questions at any time. You also have the right to stop answering questions at any time until you speak to a lawyer.”
He turned to Ketcham.
“Did I leave anything out?”
“No, you got it all, Lieutenant,” said Ketcham, who had been reading along from the card in his hand.
“What’s the charge?” Sam asked, his public face not wavering.
“The murder of Wanda Borowski, for a start,” Fred said. “And after tonight, I’m pretty sure we can add the murder of George Petris and the attempted murder of Elmer Rush.”
Joan didn’t hear the assorted gasps and murmurings around them. She was watching Elmer’s face crumple. His head kept nodding and tears rolled down the criss-crossed lines of his cheeks. For the first time, she saw him as really old. She was relieved to see the second bassoonist lean toward him and take his hand.
In contrast, Evelyn Wade was becoming more childish by the moment. Sam addressed her as he might a very little girl.
“Now, Evelyn, I want you to do something for me. I’ll need a lawyer.”
“You are a lawyer!” Her voice was petulant.
“I know, but that won’t help. Get Burton.” With the pencil on his music stand, he scribbled a message on the back of an envelope pulled from his jacket pocket. “Give him this note.”
“I don’t think so,” Fred said quietly. “I’ll take that, Sam. You know how we do it.”
To Joan’s amazement, he plucked the envelope from Sam’s hand by a corner and laid it on a white handkerchief that Sergeant Ketcham produced from thin air.
Backing away from Evelyn and Sam, Fred lifted the flap of the envelope with a pencil point and peered inside.
“Looks like the stuff, Johnny,” he said. “That and the knife should settle it.” He left the flap close and put the handkerchief-wrapped envelope into his pocket.
Sam Wade sat utterly still.
“Come on, sir,” said Ketcham. “Let’s go.”
Sam stood obediently, avoiding all eyes. Evelyn was staring at him, her mouth agape.
“Tell them it’s not true, Sam!”
Sam was silent.
“My God, I can’t believe it! You couldn’t have been so stupid.” Angry tears glistened in her eyes.
“Just call the lawyer, Evelyn,” he said.
Chin high, she exited upstage left.
27
Henry Skomp and Yoichi Nakamura arrived at the center almost simultaneously five minutes before closing time. Joan welcomed Henry gratefully; the board hadn’t yet come to a decision on the subject of after-five adult day care. In theory, it didn’t exist. In fact, she was still it.
Her chance to rest disappeared, however, when Yoichi asked her to help call an extra rehearsal to replace the one that had fallen apart the night before.
“Alex is worried about the Schubert and we have not yet read through the rest of the program. We have only three more weeks.”
“What will we do for oboes?”
“For this concert, I think we must hire them. I am working on it with Alex. She is talking to the IU Music School today. Would you please call the section leaders whose names I have checked here? Ask them all to notify the members of their sections and to report to you or me if someone cannot come.”
He handed her a list of players. Neat brush strokes eliminated the names George Petris, Gideon Samuel Wade, and Wanda Borowski.
Later, at home, Joan kicked off her shoes, padded to the refrigerator for ice cubes and orange juice, and sta
rted down the list.
Except for having witnessed Sam’s arrest, the section leaders were little different from the people at the center who had played “Isn’t it awful?” all day. To most, she said honestly, “I haven’t heard any more than you already know.”
Only the bare facts had made it into the Courier. Sam wasn’t talking and Elmer’s daughter had refused to let the reporter interview him.
Nancy was another story.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said. “Evelyn never cared two hoots about Sam. You know what she did this morning, of course.”
“No, but I imagine you’ll tell me.”
“I got it from Hazel Baines, who works at the bank. Evelyn marched in there at nine sharp, cool as a cucumber, and cleaned out their joint accounts. She even brought in the key to the safe-deposit box, but of course Hazel couldn’t see what she did there. It’s all over town. Gil Snarr told his wife that Evelyn dropped by the funeral home and asked him to sell their double plot. She’s pulled the kids out of school and Jim Hendricks says he’s supposed to bring a van for her furniture tomorrow. It looks as though she isn’t leaving a thing behind that isn’t nailed down. Sam can’t stop her. They won’t let him out on bail.”
“Poor Sam,” Joan said.
“Poor Sam! Joan, he murdered two people!”
“Did he?”
“Well, of course he did. They don’t go around arresting the county prosecutor unless they have an airtight case.”
Not even a change of venue would affect that point of view, Joan thought. She wondered what Fred had turned up to change his mind and just how airtight his case against Sam was. He had sounded pretty sure of himself at the rehearsal, especially after he opened the envelope.
She was relieved when the doorbell broke into the conversation. “Gotta go, Nancy. There’s someone at the door. Don’t forget to call the trombones.”
Fred stood on her doorstep, neither downcast nor wearing the cocky grin of the night before. She discovered that she was ridiculously pleased to see him.
“Come in, come in. I only have about a million questions to ask you.”
“You and everyone else.” But he smiled and settled into the one big chair in the little house.
Murder in C Major Page 18