Joan thought back. “I was eight years old. I remember, because half the third grade came down with it that year.”
“Not the German measles, the man.”
She’s dying to ask who he is. “We’ve been seeing each other quite a while now.” Ouch.
“There you go. All done.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.”
At least Rebecca won’t have to have the shot. I know we did that when she was little, and I still have her medical records. Somewhere. I’ll have to find them.
When Liz returned, the blue paper bore her clear signature and an illegible scribble that had to be Dr. Cutts’s.
“I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you.” Joan smiled and tucked the form into her bag.
The center was so subdued after the funeral that she felt conspicuous in the red shirt she had chosen for the day care. Not that Charlie had seemed to notice it—or her, for that matter. But he had eaten better than the day before.
She left work early and walked over to the church, a modest frame building with a steeple—the kind Rebecca had always drawn as a child, even when her father was pastoring a congregation that called a flat, school-like building its church home. But Joan had been glad to discover that the minister’s sermons weren’t as old-fashioned as the building. He wasn’t Ken, but she could listen to him from time to time.
He met her in his shirtsleeves at the door to his study.
“Mrs. Spencer? I’m Eric Young. Come in, won’t you?” His cheerful face glowed all the way up to his rising hairline. In good shape, he looked to be in his mid-thirties.
She followed him into a study furnished simply with a desk, a couple of armchairs upholstered in what looked like real leather, and a tall shelf of books. The chair he offered her squished comfortably when she settled into it.
He took the desk chair and leaned forward. “How can I help you?”
Poor man, you don’t know whether I’m coming to ask your theological advice, or to unload the burdens of my life on you. “Marry me.”
He looked startled, and she grinned.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. My husband was a minister, and he used to talk about all the women he’d married.”
He smiled. “You said ‘was.’ ” His eyebrows rose.
“He died young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. The first years were hard, but we’re doing all right.”
“You have a family?”
“A daughter and a son. Andrew is living at home while he’s in college here, and Rebecca lives in New York. They’ve both heard you preach—Rebecca was in town for the quilt show last year. Her fiancé is a finalist in the Indianapolis violin competition this week. I think they may want to be married here, too, but I don’t know when.”
“Back up there a minute.”
“I really did come to ask you to marry me. I’m engaged to Fred Lundquist, who’s on the Oliver police force. I hoped we could be married in the church.”
“Did you have a date in mind?” He reached for a date book.
“It’s a little up in the air because of Rebecca, but we don’t have to wait for her. Mr. Young, some days I’m afraid to wait. I’m afraid he’ll be the next police officer killed.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and she fumbled blindly in her bag for a handkerchief. He slid a box of tissues across the desk and waited while she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
“Where did that come from?” she said finally. “I didn’t mean to cry on your shoulder. I didn’t expect it to hit me that hard.”
“I’ll be happy to do your wedding anytime,” he said. “The only wedding scheduled here in the next few weeks is tomorrow morning. So, tell me a little about the groom. How long have you known him? How did you meet?”
He was a good listener, and by the time she left his study, she was glad she hadn’t told Fred she’d settle for a quick ceremony in the clerk’s office. At the minister’s suggestion, she went downstairs to look at the modest room the church offered for receptions. Not that she could imagine a big wing-ding. Tables covered with white tablecloths were already set up for Saturday’s wedding, and at the far end of the room a familiar flaming head was directing a young man hanging colored streamers from the ceiling.
Joan’s previous encounters with Catherine Turner, the town’s only caterer, had been anything but pleasant. When she’d first met him, Fred had still been seeing Catherine, who had held it against Joan ever since for coming between them. She hoped Catherine wouldn’t notice her now.
No such luck. Her hands full of rolled-up streamers and her red hair flying, Catherine came over to her. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Me?” Unlikely, Joan thought. What’s she up to this time?
“Mm-hmm. Ever since the police showed me your son’s picture yesterday.”
“They did what?”
“I’m surprised Fred didn’t tell you.” She was clearly enjoying herself.
You tell me, or I’ll probably strangle you with my bare hands. Oh, why does this woman succeed in making me so angry, every time? And what on earth is she talking about?
“He had people going up and down my street yesterday, showing pictures of that violinist who disappeared, with some pictures of young men, and asking whether we had seen her with any of them. I recognized your son from that time you brought him to church. I’m so sorry he’s under suspicion. I’ve often been glad I never had children. It’s such a terrible disappointment to parents when they go wrong.” She turned her back on Joan and called some direction to the fellow hanging the streamers.
Stunned, Joan stumbled up the stairs and out of the church. Eric Young had already left for the day—he probably had a rehearsal tonight for that wedding—and what could she have said to him, anyway? My fiancé suspects my son of committing a crime, and he’s told his old girlfriend before telling me?
24
Joan’s thoughts tumbled through her head as she walked home from the church. She knew that Andrew would never do such a thing. So why didn’t Fred know? And why didn’t he tell her he was circulating Andrew’s picture with the others? How could he let her hear about it from Catherine?
Is that why Fred was asking what it would take to make me notice if Andrew used the car? And I said I wouldn’t. Great. He couldn’t have used it the day she disappeared, though. I drove it up to Indianapolis Monday morning, and stayed all day. Fred knows that.
If he remembers. That was the day Kyle Pruitt was hit. Fred didn’t come over that night at all. He probably doesn’t remember that I had the car. Not that Andrew couldn’t have borrowed someone else’s.
But he didn’t. And I don’t believe Bruce did it, either, or Uwe. It’s easier to imagine a group of kids in a fraternity daring each other to pull a stunt like that.
Uh-huh. That’s why they get blamed for everything that happens around here. You’re not being fair.
Maybe not. But it wasn’t Andrew!
Fred arrived shortly after she got home, but with Andrew there, she felt constrained from bringing up what was at the top of her mind. Seething, she fed them sandwiches.
When Bruce didn’t even approach the table, she knew better than to push food on him, but he accepted a cup of tea in the living room. She left him hunched over it and hurried into her bedroom to change into her good shoes and do her hair for the evening. Time was getting tight. Fortunately, Bruce had thought to bring his tux along. If he’d had to go back to the Osbornes’ to dress, he would have had to leave on Thursday, or she would have had to put off seeing the minister.
And I might not have seen Catherine at all, she thought. Then I wouldn’t have known Fred suspected Andrew. Would that have been good or bad? I hate this whole business.
“You ready in there?” Fred called.
Think of Bruce. This is his night. And we’re the only family he has here.
She took a deep breath. “Coming.”
Fre
d drove, with Joan beside him, and Andrew, Bruce, and the violin in back. Looking pale, Bruce sat straight and still in his sweats, with his fiddle between his knees. The tux rode in a garment bag behind Fred.
Joan’s fingers reached automatically for the radio knob, but she pulled them back. Music was the last distraction Bruce needed. She wished she knew him well enough to know whether talking would help or bother him. He had said he was nothing like Camila, who wanted someone with her before her performance. She decided to stay silent.
Andrew showed no such qualms. “You find that car yet?”
“Not yet,” Fred said. “But we know it’s a white Ford wagon, and we have a sample of the paint and a piece of its right front parking light.”
“What’s the next step?”
“We’re checking repair shops and parts shops. No luck close to home, but we’re branching out. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Suppose the driver doesn’t notice it, or he just doesn’t bother fixing it?”
“We’re not the only police department watching for it. If it’s driven on the public roads, someone will spot it.”
A muffled sound behind her made Joan turn around. Taking one look at Bruce’s too-white face, she told Fred, “Stop the car.”
They were still rolling on the shoulder when Bruce flung open his door and disposed of his tea on the gravel. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Thanks.” Looking a little better, he pulled the door shut. “Afraid I cut that a little too close.”
“You want to wait here a minute?” Fred said.
“No, I’ll be okay now.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Fred pulled back out onto the road. The whole episode had taken only moments.
Bruce was looking more like himself by the time they dropped him at the Hilbert Circle Theatre, where he’d play with the Indianapolis Symphony.
“I hate to go off and leave him like that,” Joan said as she watched the tall figure with violin and garment bag slung over his back disappear into the building. Despite all the glass on the front of the building, he was soon invisible.
“He’s done it before,” Fred said. “He’ll be fine.”
She was sure it was true. But how could he put himself through it over and over?
In the lobby, elegant chandeliers, cream-colored paint with touches of gold leaf, and a lush carpet befitted the finals. Even the audience buzzed at a higher pitch than at the semifinals. And they had dressed for the occasion. Here and there, Joan saw men in black tie and women in long dresses and sequins. She was glad she had worn her pearls, which she’d inherited from her mother. They were the only good jewelry she owned, except for the modest diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band she’d quit wearing several years after Ken’s death. Her feet sank into thick carpet as she followed the usher down the aisle, and she inhaled enough perfume to choke anyone with allergies.
As Bruce’s family, they had rated good tickets, smack in the middle of the tenth row. Seated between Andrew and Fred, she looked around, but she didn’t recognize anyone yet. Bruce would play on the second half of the program tonight, but they had arrived early enough that only a few Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra penguins in black and white were noodling onstage. In between trumpet runs, she recognized the oboe solo from the second movement of the Brahms. Get it right, she thought. He deserves the best you can do.
A sudden worry hit her. “Bruce didn’t mention running through his concerto with the orchestra.”
“They did it Wednesday afternoon,” Andrew told her. “He’s hoping they won’t rush him. He and the conductor had some different ideas about what the tempo ought to be.”
“It’s the conductor’s job to follow the soloist.”
“Sure, but if the conductor speeds up the orchestra when he’s not playing, he’ll sound as if he can’t play that fast when he comes in the way he wants it. And the orchestra starts this concerto, not the violin.”
“Where did you learn all that?”
“From Bruce. I like him, Mom. He sure beats some of the losers Rebecca dated in high school.”
Joan laughed, remembering. “They weren’t so bad, really, just young. I’m amazed she didn’t kill you a time or two back then, you gave her so much grief.”
“It paid off, didn’t it? She waited for a good one.”
Fred’s hand squeezed hers. His eyes were laughing down at her. She smiled back, resolving to believe in him, to believe that whatever he was doing with Andrew’s picture had some perfectly logical explanation.
“There you are!” Arriving at the seat just beyond Fred, Polly Osborne looked smashing in a simple black dress that could have gone anywhere, and a double strand of pearls.
Joan resisted fingering her own single strand.
Bob Osborne wore a suit that might well have come straight from work. They shook hands all around.
“How is he doing?” Polly asked.
“Seems calm enough,” Fred said.
“If you don’t count throwing up on the way.” Andrew shook his head. “And he didn’t even eat supper.”
“He’ll make up for it afterward. You’ll come back to the house? We’re hosting a little party for him.”
Joan exchanged the kind of glance with Fred that made her feel married already. “Sure, we’d love to.” She would wall off her anger; deal with it later.
“You’ll have to tell us all about Camila,” Polly said. “We were so glad when we heard she was safe. Is it true that she just walked up to you and Bruce?”
“It’s true. He was walking me to work through the park, and there she was.”
“And she doesn’t remember a thing?” Bob asked.
“Not much,” Fred said. “The doctor thought her memory might return, but he couldn’t predict how long it would take. He found benzos, but we haven’t heard back yet what kind from the blood we sent to the IU Med Center.”
“I’ll see if I can speed that up a little,” Bob said. “I don’t know whether I have any influence, but it can’t hurt to try.”
“I’m so sorry her family landed on you,” Polly said to Joan.
“Not on me, on Bruce and Fred. I was at work, and missed them.”
“Bruce was worried about them. Did they tear him limb from limb?”
“Close,” Fred said. “But by the time they left, he had them eating out of his hand.”
“I hope it doesn’t affect his playing.”
“I don’t think it will,” Joan said, and hoped it was true. “He got it over with yesterday. Until the last hour or so today, he seemed pretty calm.”
A few rows ahead of them, Uwe was squeezing past the early comers. Reaching his seat, he looked back and waved his good hand at them.
“There’s Uwe,” Joan said. “I want to tell him that his school talk brought that phone call about the Johnson boys.”
But the sound of the oboe’s A told her it was too late. When the orchestra had turned by sections, the conductor came onstage with Hannah Weiss, the first finalist of the evening. Forgetting the voice that would announce it, Joan consulted the program quickly, before the lights dimmed. Hannah would play the Mendelssohn concerto, often the first big concerto any violinist played, and the first concerto Joan remembered ever having accompanied, back when she was in the high school orchestra.
Hannah, wearing red satin, tuned quickly and stood ready. The violin solo began immediately in this concerto, Joan remembered, over what her father used to call “deedle-deedles” in the strings.
At first sweetly, then vigorously, Hannah played the lyrical theme that made up most of the Allegro molto appassionato. Her intonation was precise and her arpeggios exact, but the passion was missing. This music should make you want to weep, Joan thought, remembering not that early school performance now, but the only time she’d ever heard Itzhak Perlman play, when he, too, had chosen the Mendelssohn. He gave us soul, but Hannah’s only playi
ng notes. No wonder Bruce isn’t worried about her.
Hannah redeemed herself with the lively last movement, in which her clear, rapid technique stood her in good stead. But Joan, while enjoying the music, had already dismissed her as a medal contender.
The break between the first two performers was too brief for a real intermission, and the concertgoers stayed in their seats.
“Wow!” Andrew said. “Are they all that good?”
“The other finalists I’ve heard are even better,” Joan said. “Unless Camila isn’t back to herself by tomorrow.”
“Bruce is that good?” He sounded awed.
“Wait’ll hear you hear him when it counts. But he’ll play last tonight.”
Katsuo Tanaka would play the Beethoven concerto, the voice announced. He bowed to the audience and turned to the orchestra to check his tuning against the oboe. Then he stood with his head down, waiting.
The soft boom boom boom boom of the first timpani notes sent shivers through her, as they always did, and Joan found herself hoping that this young man would do Beethoven justice, even if he was competing with Bruce. When the violin made its entrance, a clear, sweet tone promised that he would. Joan played along mentally with the violas during the triplet passage she had once practiced for another orchestra and another soloist until it had flowed effortlessly from her fingers and bow, and then she relaxed into the beauty of the violin. Katsuo was playing so far beyond her abilities that all she could do was listen.
By the time he had danced through the last movement, she applauded as enthusiastically as anyone in the appreciative audience. If she hadn’t had a good idea of what was yet to come, she would have thought it impossible for the judges to choose anyone but this young Japanese man as the gold medalist.
The lights came up, and Polly leaned over. “That’s the best I’ve heard him play. I thought Bruce was definitely better on the Mozart.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Bob said. “Only the judges get to vote.”
“That’s why we’ve never hosted a finalist before. I would have chosen a couple they passed over. This is always so exciting.”
Joan remembered that she wanted to find Uwe. But then she saw him making his way toward them through the crowded aisle. He slid into the row in front of them and stood facing them.
The Vanishing Violinist Page 17