The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “Except the violin,” Bruce said, staring into space.

  “Well, yes, except that. And I’m sure they’ll want to see for themselves how close together our houses are.”

  “No wonder they suspect me.” He stood up and brushed the crumbs off his black trousers. “Joan, if you really mean it, I think I’d better go with you. I’ll need to pack a few things.”

  “Sure. If you forget anything, you can probably borrow it from Andrew.”

  “Except a violin,” Uwe said, and grinned.

  “I’ve never held so tight to my violin in my life,” Bruce said. “Until we know who took the Strad, I’m not letting go.” Tucking the case under his arm, he left the room.

  “I have to take off now, too,” Cindy said. “I’ve got a client in Louisville on the brink of making an offer on a house I’ve been trying to unload for months. But I’ll come back up for as many of the final concerts as I can. Give your mother a hug, son.”

  When Nate unfolded himself from a chair clear across the room from her and obliged, Joan thought his embrace showed real affection.

  “Have a safe trip.” Polly ushered Cindy out the door.

  Relaxing visibly, Nate helped himself to seconds—or was it thirds?—from the tray Uwe had set down on the coffee table. How could he put away so much and still look like Paganini? Maybe he’d only faked eating before his concert.

  “So, Nate, how did Vivienne do tonight?” Uwe asked.

  “Okay, I guess. I was too wrapped up in my own playing to be any judge. You were supposed to be my spy, remember? But you sold out.”

  “I need the money.”

  “Me, too, believe me.”

  “You’ve already won some, as a finalist.” Uwe tapped Nate’s shoulder with his good hand. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, but I have a long way to go. I played okay tonight. What do you think of Hannah Weiss?”

  “Very precise. Safe for the judges.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “I’d rather hear someone take chances, the way the three of you do—you and Bruce and Camila.”

  “But who knows what she’ll pull off in her concerto?” Nate tossed his head.

  “Who you talking about?” Bruce had changed to blue jeans when he came back carrying an overnight bag, his violin over his back and his tux on a hanger.

  “Hannah Weiss.”

  “Relax, Nate, you can play rings around her.” Bruce grinned. “It’s me you have to watch out for, and I’m taking my technique into seclusion. I’m gonna come up with a whole new approach to defeat you.” He turned to Polly. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “We’re pulling for you, Bruce.” She hugged him and Joan at the door.

  Joan opened the wayback of the old Honda wagon for Bruce to stow his violin and bag. Quite a comedown from the Osbornes’ Volvo, not to mention their house. And his own family probably lived as comfortably as the Osbornes.

  I will not apologize for not having as much money as a doctor.

  “Joan, this is really nice of you,” he said when they were finally rolling along the highway between fields of dry cornstalks. The cool September evening breezed through the car’s open windows and ruffled their hair.

  “It’s the least I can do, and it’s going to be fun to have you there. Of course, Rebecca left home before I moved to Oliver. It’s never been home to her.”

  “Will I see Andrew and Fred?”

  “Andrew, anyway.” At least they wouldn’t have to share a bedroom. Not for the first time, she was grateful that her little house could sleep three adults in separate rooms. “Fred’s harder to predict. That sergeant who was hit on Monday died yesterday.”

  “Did they catch the driver?”

  “Not unless it was tonight. Fred’s taking it pretty hard, and all the police are working overtime. I don’t know whether you’ll see him at all.”

  “It’s okay. I’m getting away from people, remember?”

  “If he does come over, he may be kind of cranky.” She felt disloyal for even mentioning it. But it wouldn’t be fair to Bruce to take him from one stressful situation into another, especially if he might blame his presence for causing Fred’s mood. And would it even be fair to Fred?

  “I can imagine,” Bruce said.

  Was she going to go through life with Fred apologizing for him? Had she felt like this when Ken was upset? Why couldn’t she remember?

  “Bob Osborne lost a patient last week. He came home pretty upset. My dad’s like that, too. I learned a long time ago how to roll with it.”

  Then she did remember how it had been, sitting up with Ken into the early morning hours after he’d buried a good friend, or sometimes after he’d heard something that he couldn’t tell her about without breaking confidence. She, too, had learned to roll with it.

  I can again, she thought. I just don’t have to like it.

  16

  About all a stranger could see of Oliver by the time they arrived that night was that it was small. To Joan, though, the path of the past summer’s tornado was visible even at night, when streetlights no longer hidden by shade trees could be seen from one end of her block to the other. Half a block away, she was glad to see that Andrew had turned the porch light on for her.

  Or was Fred there, late as it was? What mood would he be in tonight? When Andrew opened the door to them, her disappointment battled her relief.

  “I was starting to get worried about you, Mom. Well, hi, Bruce. Come on in.” He stood back and closed the door behind them.

  “I made her late,” Bruce said. “I’m hiding out here for a while.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows rose.

  “Bruce will tell you all about it,” Joan said. “I’m going up to check the spare bedroom.” That was putting it mildly. The small spare room had hardly been touched since Rebecca’s visit.

  To her relief, it wasn’t bad. She wiped off the thin layer of dust, made the bed with Grandma Zimmerman’s blue and white sawtooth quilt, and set clean towels on her own old maple dresser.

  When she went back downstairs, Andrew was making noise in the kitchen and Bruce was browsing in her sheet music.

  “You play the Sinfonia Concertante? We should try it together while I’m here. Or these Mozart violin-viola duos—I’ve always loved them.”

  “I love them, too. That’s why I’m not going to let you hear me murder them.”

  “Uwe said you guys were pretty good.”

  “He was being generous. Anyhow, he didn’t hear me by myself.”

  “You mean when we’re in the same family, we’ll never play together?” His eyes, as blue as Fred’s, were teasing her now.

  “I don’t know about never. But I’d have to know you a whole lot better.”

  “I’ll get my mom to work on you. We’ve played violin together for years.”

  “That’s different. She heard you make your first squawks.”

  He laughed. “She sure did! I don’t know how any parent lives through that stage, especially on a quarter-size violin.”

  Joan tried to stifle a yawn, but it got away from her. “I’m too tired even to think about it.”

  Bruce nodded. “I’m still too wound up to sleep. Would it bother you if I played down here for a while? I’d use my heavy practice mute.”

  “Make yourself at home, Bruce, but leave the mute off. I often fall asleep to music on the radio or a CD.”

  She was almost beyond hearing the cadenza that floated up the stairwell when she remembered that she hadn’t checked the answering machine for a message from Fred.

  In the morning, Andrew fixed pancakes for breakfast, as if it were Sunday. By the time Joan came downstairs from her shower, he and Bruce had the meal on the table and were talking as if they’d known each other for years. And there was no light blinking on the machine.

  She sat down and helped herself. “Andrew, did Fred call last night?”

  “Oh, yeah. He said he’d see you sometime today. I told him you
were taking Uwe back. I didn’t know about Bruce.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give him a call.” From work—there wasn’t time to talk now. She poured local maple syrup on her short stack. “You’re on your own today, Bruce.”

  “That’s the idea.” He looked very much at home, in gray sweats and running shoes. “Andrew showed me where you keep things.”

  “Good.”

  “But I was wondering if you’d like company on the way to work. I like to run in the morning, and I could see Oliver.”

  Andrew choked on his orange juice. “Run? Mom?”

  She glared at him. “I’d love the company, Bruce, but I don’t run unless I have to. Walking’s my speed.”

  “Sure. I’ll run back.”

  And then some, she was sure. No wonder he was such a string bean.

  They left Andrew with the dishes and set off on her usual path through the neighborhood and the park. Another beautiful blue September morning. A few of the trees that had survived the tornado were showing hints of the colors to come in October, and a new sycamore was already dropping leaves that looked too big to have fallen from such a little tree. At this hour she seldom saw anyone in the park but occasional runners and dog walkers out for exercise. This morning, though, a woman coming toward them from the downtown side of the park was wandering on and off the path. Was she drunk?

  “It’s a little early in the day,” Joan said aloud, but Bruce broke into a run.

  “It’s Camila!” he yelled back to her.

  Who? she thought for a split second, and then she, too, saw, and ran after him.

  When she reached them, Bruce was already holding Camila’s hands. This was not the beautifully groomed, alert young violinist they knew, but a vacant-looking woman with matted hair and rumpled clothing. Her face was clean, but bare of makeup.

  “Camila, are you all right?” Bruce asked urgently.

  She stared up at him as if trying to focus her eyes. “Bruce?”

  “Where have you been? How did you get here? We’ve been so worried about you!”

  Big tears rolled down her cheeks. “I—I don’t know.” Then she reached up and clung to him. “I’m lost!”

  “It’s all right, Camila. You’re not lost anymore.” He held her and shook his head over her shoulder at Joan, but there was a big smile on his face.

  “You’re safe,” Joan said quietly. “We’ll help you.”

  Camila looked at her blankly and said something that sounded like Portuguese.

  “Your mother and father are on their way,” Bruce answered, as if he’d understood her.

  “My violin!” Camila cried. She pulled away from Bruce. Her eyes, no longer vacant, were suddenly wide and wild. “Where is my violin?”

  If Joan hadn’t been sure before, she was now—Camila had nothing to do with the disappearance of her violin. So where was it? What had happened to her? Where had she been since Monday? And how had she turned up in Oliver’s park, of all places?

  “We’ll find it,” Bruce soothed her, putting an arm around her waist. “Everything’s going to be all right now. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’re so glad you’re safe.”

  She cuddled up to him like a child seeking comfort, and peered at Joan. “Who is she?” Even her voice sounded like a little girl’s.

  “Why, that’s our friend Joan.” Bruce spoke to the small child he was sheltering. “You met her at the picnic. Remember the picnic?”

  “Oh. Yes. Hello, Joan.”

  “Hello, Camila. We’re awfully glad to see you.”

  “Where are we?” Less panicky now, she was looking around.

  “This is a park near my house. Would you like to see my house?” Taking her to the police station in this state might shock her.

  “I have to find my violin. I need to practice for the competition.”

  “I’ll lend you mine,” Bruce said. “It’s at Joan’s house. You can practice there. Come on, I’ll show you.” Letting go of her, he held out his hand.

  She took it, still childlike. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Joan said. “I want to tell Fred where we’re going.”

  “Good idea.” Holding Camila’s hand, Bruce set off slowly across the park. Joan watched them for a moment and then headed straight for the police station.

  “Mrs. Spencer is here,” the desk clerk phoned upstairs. “She says it’s urgent.”

  “I’ll be right down.” Fred pulled on his jacket. Was she upset at him? Couldn’t she cut him a little slack right now? Or was it really urgent? God, he thought, don’t let anything happen to Joan. She’s the one bright spot in my life. But she must be all right if she’s here in person.

  Praying it was true, he hurried down the steps to the first floor to find her waiting on the old wooden bench by the desk. She was dressed for work, so maybe it was routine, after all. He couldn’t tell from the brightness of her eyes whether she was upset or happy to see him. Part of him wanted to kiss her, and part of him wanted to shake her for scaring him like that. In front of the desk clerk, he settled for taking her hand.

  “Joan, are you all right?”

  Her mouth curved up, and her eyes smiled with it. “Oh, Fred, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to worry you. But you’re never going to believe what just happened in the park.” She paused, as if not sure where to begin. “Bruce is here for a day or two, and he was walking me to work.”

  “He’s hurt?”

  “No. We found Camila!”

  “The violinist? The missing Brazilian? Here?” It made no sense at all.

  “Yes, can you believe it? She was just wandering around in the park, kind of lost. She doesn’t seem to know where she’s been or where she is now. All she can talk about is her violin. I left Bruce walking her back to my house. I was afraid it would freak her out to bring her here.”

  Probably. “Did she have the violin?”

  “No, she asked us where it was, because she said she had to practice for the competition. Bruce told her he’d lend her his, and that he’d take her to it. She went with him willingly enough. She called him by name, but she didn’t recognize me until Bruce told her who I was. Maybe not even then.”

  “How did she get there?”

  “She has no idea. At least, she didn’t when we found her. She seemed kind of dazed at first, but I think she was coming out of it a little by the time I left.”

  “And where did she say she’d been?”

  “She didn’t. I’m sure she doesn’t know. Something’s happened to her, Fred. She’s not the person you met at that picnic. I can’t imagine how she could play the way she is now. But oh, Fred, this will take a lot of the pressure off Bruce. The Indianapolis cops have all but accused him of kidnapping her.” Her relief was obvious. “And her parents are arriving today.”

  “From Brazil.”

  “Yes, with her boyfriend.”

  “Stay here—I’ll be right back. Or do you have to be at work?”

  “I can call and explain.”

  He nodded and spoke to the desk clerk. “Get Mrs. Spencer an outside line, please. And, Joan, don’t tell them what’s up yet. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. They’ll probably think it’s personal. I suppose in a way it is.”

  “Good.” Leaving her to it, he went back upstairs to clear this business with Captain Altschuler before he got in too deep.

  The chief of detectives, like so many of his colleagues this week, looked gloomy when Fred knocked on his open door and went in.

  “Any news?”

  “Not about Pruitt. But we have another situation.” He filled him in quickly. “I met the girl a little over a week ago, when we went up to a picnic at the host family next door to hers.”

  “So you already know the players.”

  “So to speak.” Fred grinned. “Not that the other violinists necessarily had anything to do with her disappearance, or why she’s here.”

  “You might as well follow it up from our end. Cooperate with th
e IPD and whoever else they’ve called in. The FBI involved?”

  “Not as far as I know. I haven’t heard anything about a ransom demand. Not that they’d publicize it.”

  “Right. Keep me posted.” Warren Altschuler’s homely brow furrowed even deeper. “And don’t let it interfere with your investigation of Pruitt’s death.”

  “No, sir.” Fat chance of that. They’d been over the same ground so often by now that it was trampled, but no new leads had developed. He thought personally that nothing short of a miracle would make much difference in that investigation. Bad enough that Pruitt was young, and one of their own. But how could he tell Kyle’s parents the police were helpless to find the driver who hit their only son? And how would the rest of Oliver react to having a high-profile case seem to push Pruitt’s death onto a back burner? The media circus would do exactly that, no matter how much effort continued in the police department, unless he had some kind of breakthrough soon.

  Back at his own desk, he picked up the phone.

  17

  With that miserable bench hitting her in all the wrong spots, Joan was relieved to see Fred come back down the steps toward her.

  “All set,” he told her, and led the way out to his own car, not one of the police units. “I’ve been talking to Indianapolis.”

  “What did they say?”

  “We agreed that we should have her checked out at the Oliver hospital. They’ll bring her family down here to ID her.” They descended the worn limestone steps outside the police station.

  Joan stopped dead. “We know who she is!”

  “Of course, but it’s not a bad idea to have her folks with her when she goes back up there. If she’s ready to go back, that is.”

  “I think she’ll want to go. She’s already worried about practicing for the competition.” She followed him around the corner.

  “And if I’m ready to release her.” He held the passenger door until she reached for her seat belt, then closed it for her and got in behind the wheel. “I want to pick her brains some first.”