The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “Thinking about another man.” She grinned. “An old guy in the day care. And about Camila. Fred, I’ll bet anything she was drugged. What do they call that date-rape drug?”

  “Rohypnol, or roofies.”

  “That’s the one. They ought to check her for it. And you ought to drive her around Oliver. See if she can recognize the place she was held, like a fraternity house, maybe.”

  He smiled at her. “I’m way ahead of you. You’re right about the drug. She had something in that family, anyway. When we get the full report we’ll know more. She still doesn’t remember much. Before she and her folks went back to Indianapolis, I rode around town with her. She remembered the park, but didn’t react to the campus, or the fraternities. She got kind of agitated in a residential neighborhood near campus, though. At one point she thought she remembered a dog, but she couldn’t remember anything about it, or about any of the houses we could see.”

  “So it’s a dead end.”

  “Not quite. We’ll circulate her photograph around there and see whether the neighbors remember seeing her.”

  “And whoever took her there.”

  “Right.” He wiped hamburger juice from his chin. “And we’ll keep our eyes out for dogs.”

  “I suppose you’ll show them Bruce’s photo.”

  “I think we have to, don’t you?” The crease in his forehead deepened.

  Poor Fred, Joan thought. You shouldn’t have to worry about my feelings while you’re doing your job. “I know. And I’ve been thinking about Uwe, too, and Nate. They hung out with Camila almost as much as Bruce did. Bruce and Nate are still practicing, but it doesn’t take much time to drive to Oliver and back.”

  “Is Uwe driving yet?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but maybe he talked her into driving herself. If he’d told her he had a lead on her violin, Camila wouldn’t have hesitated to drive anywhere to find it.”

  “And back?”

  “I forgot about back. Still, I’ll bet he could manage an automatic transmission one-handed.”

  “The cast on his arm will make him easy to remember. The Indianapolis police checked car rental agencies with photos of Camila, but not of the other violinists. They’ll go back now with the whole program booklet, and focus on before she was missing—even before the violin was missing.”

  She didn’t want it to turn out to be Uwe, who had lost everything through no fault of his own, and who had come through it with such grace. “Nate wouldn’t have to rent a car. He could borrow his mom’s, if she wasn’t using it herself.”

  “You don’t think she’d notice? Would you notice if Andrew borrowed your car without asking?”

  “Probably not, but he wouldn’t.”

  “How many miles would it take you to notice that it had been driven?”

  “I never look at the odometer as long as the gas tank isn’t low. But Cindy Lloyd might, if she logs her business trips. Nate would probably know whether he could get away with that.”

  Fred signaled to Wilma to refill their cups.

  “I can’t even imagine how she would feel if he did,” Joan said. “Or if she heard he was under suspicion. You saw them together.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not the hover mother she is, but I’d truly hate for Andrew to have done such a thing, even as a prank. He wouldn’t—I know that. I’d probably defend him as fiercely as Cindy would defend Nate. The cops had better stand back if they accuse Nate. And maybe even if they accuse Bruce.” She looked him in the eye. “I know you have to do what you have to do, but I’m becoming very fond of Bruce. Still, I don’t feel as absolutely sure about him as I do of my own son.”

  “Why would Nate bring Camila here?”

  Wilma came over and poured, but didn’t break into their conversation with dessert specials. It was one of the reasons they kept going back—not that they had a lot of choices in Oliver.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he knows students at the college. Or maybe he didn’t bring her here until this morning, before we found her in the park. Either Nate or Uwe could have brought her here to throw suspicion away from himself and onto Bruce. They both knew Bruce was coming here with me.”

  Fred raised his eyebrows.

  “I suppose that’s pretty far-fetched,” she said. “It was probably fraternity kids, no matter what Camila doesn’t remember. That’s what my old folks are saying about Kyle Pruitt. Except the ones who say fraternities are an easy scapegoat. They do have a point.”

  “We’re not jumping to any conclusions about that.” Fred shook his head. “This is turning out to be some week. Good thing we didn’t get married when we talked about. Some honeymoon this would have been.”

  She reached for his hand across the table. “I don’t care. I’d rather be with you during this mess than without you.”

  His eyes crinkled. “You mean that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even the way I’ve been acting?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled, and found that it was true.

  “Let’s go pick up a license.”

  “And get married? Just like that?”

  “We can wait. But if the mood strikes us, we won’t have to.”

  They strolled over to the courthouse hand in hand. Sudden shyness overwhelmed Joan, but the young, gum-chewing clerk was matter-of-fact.

  “Your date of birth?” she asked Joan. Not Fred.

  “Why?” You can’t think I’m underage.

  “Are you under fifty?”

  “I’m forty-three.”

  “Did you bring your rubella form?”

  “My what?”

  “Women under fifty need a rubella form signed and dated by the doctor. You have to pick the form up at the hospital lab. Bring it back with an ID with your date of birth and eighteen dollars in cash.”

  “No blood test?”

  “No. Just the form.”

  Rubella. They don’t want me to catch it while I’m pregnant. Why else would the state care? And we still haven’t talked about that.

  Fred hugged her. “I didn’t know about that. I never got married in Indiana before.”

  “Just as well we didn’t wait till the last minute. You’d think they could keep the forms in the clerk’s office.”

  “Come on, we might as well pick it up.” They walked to his car, and he drove to the hospital, leaving her in a NO PARKING zone with the motor running while he ran in. At least she didn’t have to worry about getting a ticket.

  When he came back, she told him, “Fred, I just thought. Rebecca will need one, too, if she decides to be married here.”

  Solemnly, he handed her two slips of blue paper. “I think of everything.”

  “You do, don’t you? Have you already lined up the preacher?”

  “That’s your department. You’re the one who wants the traditional fuss.”

  “All right. But right now, I couldn’t care less about tradition.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  It was high time to get back to work. Late in the afternoon, though, she did manage a couple of brief phone calls.

  Dr. Cutts’s nurse, Liz MacDonald, said she could come in first thing Friday afternoon. “Or right before lunch.”

  “No, I’m subbing for some folks who will be going to the Pruitt funeral, and I don’t know when they’ll get back.”

  “Oh, I know. Isn’t that a shame? My younger sister had a big crush on Kyle when they were in high school. But he never married.”

  “You make him sound old. He wasn’t even forty.”

  “Well, I am, and some days I feel like ninety.”

  Joan laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’re still alive by then.”

  The call to the church she had attended a few times was even briefer, since she wasn’t on chatting terms with the secretary.

  The minister had time Friday afternoon, if it could wait until then. They set the time early enough to let her make it to Bruce’s concert afterward. Everyone else was taking
the morning off; she could take some time at the end of the day.

  She decided that the gossips at the center couldn’t have any idea who was on the other end of the line, much less what the calls concerned. With Liz, she had asked for enough time to fill out a form, and the rest of the conversation, like so many these days, had concerned Kyle Pruitt’s death. With the church secretary, she had asked to see Mr. Young, whose name she knew from the Sunday bulletin on her occasional visits. There must be other Mr. Youngs in Oliver. Not that Annie Jordan couldn’t have put two and two together. Nobody else listened as closely as Annie.

  But why do I even mind if they figure it out?

  The phone rang then, and Joan picked it up. The boy on the other end of the line sounded like Andrew before his voice changed. And he sounded worried.

  “You the lady come to school yesterday?”

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  “With the guy with the fiddle?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I heard what he said, and I had to call you. The orchestra teacher told me where to find you. She’s okay.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “But I don’t want to get nobody in trouble, you know? So I didn’t want to talk to a teacher.” Oh? “Then I thought of you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean, that fiddler said to tell someone. And you’ve got a nice face, you know?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m kinda worried about these kids.”

  “What kids?” she risked.

  “There’s two kids on my school bus. Only they quit riding the bus.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “I figured they were out sick, but then I saw them at school, just not on our bus. I know they didn’t move, ’cause we drive past their house on the way to my house, and the same old junkers are in their yard.”

  “Uh-huh.” Joan had seen yards like that, especially out beyond the edge of town.

  “Then I saw them riding to school. And you know what they’re riding?”

  “What?”

  “Bikes. Both of ’em. They used to have one old bike between them. Sometimes the big kid would ride his brother on the handlebars, but he was gettin’ too heavy, you know? Only now the little kid’s got the old bike, and the big one’s got a new one. A blue ten-speed. Not real new, but they never get new stuff.”

  Joan held her breath. Was this what she hardly dared to hope it was?

  “That wasn’t so weird, but they’re not putting their bikes in the bike rack like you’re supposed to. This morning they hid them in some bushes. And the little kid acts scared of his big brother. He never used to. So I started wondering. They quit riding the bus on Monday, and I saw the blue bike on Tuesday. I heard about the bike the cops are looking for, you know?”

  “I sure do. You did the right thing, to tell someone.”

  “You won’t get ’em in trouble, will you? They’re not bad kids.”

  “No, but someone needs to talk to them. Who are they, and who are you?”

  “Let’s leave me out of this, okay? And promise me you’ll talk to them first, before you tell the cops.”

  “I promise.” Can I keep that promise? Never mind.

  “They live out on Quarry Road—you know that road?”

  “Yes.” I’ll never forget it. “Where?”

  “Before you get to the quarry. Maybe half a mile out of town, in a trailer on the right just after the road curves to the left. It says Johnson on the mailbox.”

  “And the boys’ names?”

  “Adam and Timmy. Timmy’s the little brother.”

  “Were they there—?” But the dial tone interrupted her question.

  Joan sat thinking of what she had promised. She’d had to say it, or this kid would have stopped right then. Look at the way he’d hung up. Was she bound by a promise made under duress? No. But would it hurt to keep it? She hadn’t said she wouldn’t tell the police, only that she’d talk to the boys first. Still, Fred wasn’t the anonymous police.

  Her fingers dialed his number automatically. “Fred Lundquist, please.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s not available. Would you like to speak to another detective?”

  “No, I’ll try him later.” He must be out helping canvass the neighborhood where Camila reacted to something, she thought. This might not amount to anything, anyway. I’ll just drive out there after work and check.

  22

  At five, she closed up the center and walked home through the park, enjoying what was left of the day. In a couple of months the sky wouldn’t be so blue at five. Bruce waved to her from her new porch swing, and she suddenly remembered her other promise, to take him back to Indianapolis tonight, if he wanted to go back.

  “How did it go?” Joining him on the swing, she shut her eyes and yielded to the movement. With Bruce doing all the work, it did funny things to the back of her neck.

  “Not bad. Camila’s dad was ready to tear me limb from limb at first, but we parted friends. She’s doing better already, but she wasn’t ready to perform when she left.”

  “What a shame. Bruce, I’m so sorry. Instead of the refuge I thought I was offering you, you ended up in the middle of it all.”

  “It would have been worse in Indianapolis, before they’d seen her.”

  “I suppose. Do you want to go back tonight?” She opened her eyes and saw that his were closed.

  “No, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay over again. Once they all left, it really was peaceful here. I’ve been getting a lot of work in.”

  She grinned. “I can see that.”

  “And relaxation. Just as important.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She stood up. “I’ll be back to fix supper.”

  She willed the old Honda to start one more time, patting it on its dashboard when it did. Last summer, when she’d been so worried about Andrew, she hadn’t been able to appreciate the curving, wooded beauty of Quarry Road. Now she could enjoy glimpses of steep hills and gullies and occasional houses, big and little, tucked back in the woods away from traffic. After a sharp left she spotted a battered mailbox and deciphered Johnson in its flaking paint. The rusting cars in the yard were almost as good a landmark. She pulled into the rutted driveway. The old mobile home was nestled among some of the biggest sassafras trees she’d ever seen.

  Should she go up to the sagging porch someone had built onto the front? Feeling eyes on her, even thought she couldn’t see anyone, she stood still and soaked in the natural beauty, marred only by human habitation. Around her, the leaves were already changing color. Poverty would be easier to endure, she thought, if you could see flaming sassafras from every window.

  She didn’t hear the man open the door, but there he was, tall and thin, standing on the porch in clean, faded jeans and a plaid shirt. His light brown hair, clipped short over his ears, very likely had been blond when he was a boy. Fred’s towheads might well be his sons.

  “Mr. Johnson?” She went forward. “I hope I’m not coming at a bad time.”

  “Good as any,” he said softly, and waited.

  How could she begin? I had an anonymous phone call that suggests your boys may be tangled up with a cop killing? She wished she’d thought it out ahead of time. Somehow she’d expected to be talking to the boys, not their father.

  “My name is Joan Spencer. I wonder if I could talk to your boys.”

  “They in some kind of trouble?” His voice didn’t change, but she thought he gripped the porch support harder.

  “Nothing like that. It’s a long story.”

  “I got time.” He stepped back, and gestured for her to join him on the porch, at least, but when she climbed the rickety steps, he was holding the door open.

  She followed him into the house and paused while her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Like the man, the simple furniture was worn, but clean. She sat down in one of two cushioned chairs with wooden arms. Over in one corner, hard to ignore, a shotgun leaned against
the wall.

  “Get you a cup of coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble. It’s on the stove.”

  “Yes, please.” He can’t very well shoot me if I’m drinking his coffee.

  She could see him moving in the kitchen. He poured two mugs of steaming coffee from a large graniteware coffeepot like one her grandmother had owned, and handed her a mug. She sipped her coffee black, careful not to burn her tongue, and was amazed. “Mr. Johnson, this is wonderful! What’s your secret?”

  He melted. “No secret. Ma always fixed Swede coffee like this for church suppers. You just stir a raw egg into the grounds before you dump ’em into the boiling water.”

  “I’m going to try it.” She didn’t have to fake her appreciation. Would Fred’s mother have fixed “Swede coffee” when he was growing up?

  He watched her over the rim of his mug, and waited.

  “I visited the school the other day, with a violinist from the International Violin Competition of Indianapolis. He told the students about violins and such. I don’t know whether your boys heard him.”

  “Not that they mentioned.”

  “Well, the kids got to asking him about that violin that was stolen from one of the competitors—a valuable one.”

  “Stradivarius, wasn’t it?”

  That surprised her. “Yes, it was. You can understand why they were interested. So he told them what he knew about that, and about the violinist who disappeared after that. He said that the schoolchildren he’d talked to in Indianapolis were watching for any sign of her or her violin, and what a big hero anyone would be who noticed anything that might lead to finding her or her violin and told some adult about it. But he’d heard about our local mystery too, so he told them what heroes the boys would be who called 911 when Sergeant Kyle Pruitt was hit, if they ever came forward and told what they’d seen, and especially if they were able to help the police find who hit him.”

  “I heard about that, too.” His hackles were rising. “What makes you think it’s got anything to do with my boys?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t. But I had a phone call today from a boy. He told me about Adam and Timmy because he didn’t feel comfortable talking to a teacher or the police.”