The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “How’s the hand?” Bob asked.

  “Much better.” He looked down at the cast. “I have almost no pain.”

  “Good. Your surgeon tells me he expects you to make a full recovery.”

  “That’s what he says. But here I am, down in the audience instead of up there.”

  “And you had a good chance, I know,” Joan said. “Uwe used a tape of his playing when he talked in Oliver,” she told the others. “It was truly excellent. But, Uwe, I wanted to tell you what happened after you were at the school.” She described the phone call and her drive out Quarry Road.

  “So now I have some evidence I might never have found if you hadn’t come to town.” Fred shook Uwe’s good hand warmly.

  They talked on until the lights began to blink for the end of the intermission. Joan’s own stomach began to churn.

  Bruce came onstage in his tux, looking serious, but no longer so pale. He smiled and bowed before making a quick check of his tuning. Then he stood with his violin under his arm while the orchestra began the long tutti introduction to the Brahms. Joan hoped they were taking his tempo. It certainly wasn’t fast.

  And now he was playing, and they were following him beautifully as he played arpeggios against the oboe, bassoon, and flute, and then the strings. The violin began a lyrical theme echoed in the strings, and she was lost in the interplay. Crashing chords, multiple stops, runs, trills, octaves, and a singing tone suggested nothing of the wan, sick child in the car, but a master fully in charge of his instrument.

  She held her breath when the orchestra introduced the cadenza. Would he use the sure-fire Joachim, or surprise them? The first arpeggios told her that he’d chosen the new one. Like the familiar cadenza, it blended the themes of the first movement into a beautiful, musical whole while showing off Bruce’s technical ability. Softer than the Joachim, she thought, although with this one in her ears the familiar one blurred in her memory. Trills she recognized brought the orchestra back, and the long first movement was over.

  Bruce wiped his face with a pristine handkerchief and nodded to the conductor, and the first oboist introduced the theme to the slow movement with long lines and a clear, beautiful tone. Responding, the violin didn’t play the theme, but played around it with such a sweetness that tears pricked Joan’s eyes.

  Dah, da da-da dah, the driving last movement began, and scarcely paused for breath until its electric finish. Without consciously deciding to stand, she found herself on her feet shouting “Bravo!” All around her, others in the enthusiastic audience were standing and clapping. Bruce bowed deeply and shook the hands of the conductor and concertmaster, and then the conductor waved to the first oboist to stand before he brought the entire orchestra to its feet.

  “He’s great!” Andrew shouted in Joan’s ear through the applause.

  “I wish Rebecca could have heard him,” she said when it finally ended, and Bruce had left the stage. “She would have been so proud.”

  “The bank’s not open on Sunday. Couldn’t she fly out, even if she has to work Monday?”

  “You’re right. After tonight, I can’t believe he won’t be one of the medalists.” She wondered how much a ticket would cost on such short notice. Fred would say it’s only money, she thought. But that depends on whether you have it.

  It took a while to make their way to the lobby, and considerably longer to collect Bruce, waylaid by congratulatory handshakes that it would have been a shame to interrupt. Eventually, though, he went back for the garment bag that now held his sweats, Fred brought the car around, and they piled in.

  The street in front of the Osbornes’ was so full that they had to park several doors down, across from the Inmans’ house. In the driveway, Joan saw Gail Inman’s white station wagon with the logo on the door, and suddenly realized what Timmy Johnson had meant by graffiti on the car he saw—it had to have been the logo of some business. She turned to tell Fred, but he was already halfway to the Osbornes’ door, matching strides with Bruce and Andrew as if she weren’t there.

  But Cindy and Nate Lloyd were getting out of the blue sedan that had squeezed into the space in front of them. Joan greeted them warmly.

  “Bruce was terrific!” Nate said. “Gave me something to live up to.”

  “He was, wasn’t he?” Joan said, falling into step beside them.

  “And that took guts, to play his own cadenza.”

  “Was it his? It was beautiful.”

  “Yeah. He was debating all week whether to risk it.”

  “So that’s why I heard him practicing both of them. I wonder how late he decided which one to use.”

  “I didn’t see Camila,” Nate said. “Will she be at the Osbornes’ party?”

  “I don’t know. Her family brought her back here yesterday, but I don’t know whether she’s staying at the Schmalzes’ or in a hotel with her folks.”

  “It’s too hard to practice in a hotel,” he said. “She’d be better off with a host family. The Inmans have been terrific to me and Mom. Clyde Inman likes Camila a lot. Maybe she could move in with us.”

  “Nathan couldn’t wish for a better host family,” Cindy said. “They’ve given me a room of my own for whenever I can make it up here. These homes are so big; it wouldn’t surprise me if Camila’s family were staying with the Schmalzes.”

  Camila, at least, was staying with them, Polly Osborne told them at the door, but they’d called to say she wasn’t coming. “I guess it’s all she can do to try to get ready for tomorrow. She’s not up to facing a crowd tonight.”

  Crowd was right. Even the Osbornes’ huge living room had standing room only. Joan spotted Bruce and Andrew at the buffet table. Andrew had eaten plenty at supper, but poor Bruce needed it. He certainly seemed to be relaxed now, alternately eating and accepting more congratulations.

  Feeling a little lonely among so many strangers, Joan found her way to Fred, who was standing with his back to a wall, always his preference in a crowd.

  He smiled at her. “Had enough?”

  “I have, but Andrew’s still stuffing his face.”

  “I expect a long day tomorrow, and I’m fading fast.”

  “I’ll get him.” She made her way through the crowd and waited her turn to hug Bruce. “It was wonderful, Bruce. I hope we can make it back tomorrow. Tell Rebecca I’ll give her a call late tonight.”

  He blushed as only a redhead could. “I already talked to her.”

  “Of course you did. Where’s my head? I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Come on, Andrew. Fred’s getting antsy.”

  When Fred dropped them off and they went inside, her message machine was blinking. Rebecca, she thought, but the voice was younger than Rebecca’s.

  “Mrs. Spencer, this is Cathy. You came to our school, remember? And Uwe gave me a lesson. I saw your name in the paper this morning. I really need to talk to you. Please call me, okay?”

  But it was too late at night. Cathy would have to wait.

  25

  Joan dragged herself out of bed early on Saturday to catch Rebecca before she went to work. “He was really great last night, Bec. We were all so proud of him. You should have heard Andrew go on.”

  “Oh, Mom, I wish I could have been there!”

  “That’s what I’m calling about. If you want to come to the awards ceremony on Sunday, I’d love to buy you a plane ticket.”

  “Mom, that’s really sweet, but it’s unbelievably expensive on such short notice. We talked about it, but he’ll still be practicing today anyway, in case he has to perform tomorrow, and I’d have to come right back tomorrow night. I can’t remember the schedule, but I’d be completely beat. Besides, what if I went and then he didn’t medal? I wouldn’t want to jinx him.”

  Joan smiled. “You don’t believe that.”

  “Not really. But I don’t want to do anything to put pressure on him, and he’s made it plain that I’m not welcome, much as he loves me. Maybe because he loves me. It was true, what I told you about the bank, but that was only pa
rt of it. He wouldn’t let his family go to the competition at all, you know. Absolutely put his foot down.”

  “I wondered. He just said they couldn’t come. I didn’t push him about it.”

  “They’re busy, of course, but he really didn’t want them there, or me, either. For you to drive up doesn’t feel like such a big deal, and he doesn’t know you so well, so he could handle that. Bruce’s whole life could be touring and stuff, if he makes it as a soloist.” Her voice sounded wistful. “I wish I could be more a part of it, but I’m going to have to get used to staying home a lot and hearing about it.”

  This was not the impulsive daughter Joan remembered. Maybe she was ready for marriage, at that. But what kind of marriage would it be, to a man so high-strung that her very presence wouldn’t be welcome at his trials and triumphs?

  No worse than showing Andrew’s picture around like a criminal’s! Couldn’t Fred see how upset I was? He had to know how that made me feel.

  No, he didn’t, she remembered. He still doesn’t know I know about it. And maybe knowing how I’d feel is why he didn’t tell me in the first place.

  Still … can’t he trust me more than that? We have to talk.

  She took her time over a bowl of cereal before calling Cathy, who probably slept in on Saturdays. But Cathy sounded wide awake.

  “Oh, Mrs. Spencer, I’m so glad you called. I was about to try you again. I called you yesterday after school, but you weren’t home, and then you didn’t call back last night, and nobody else would listen to me.” The words came out in a rush, with scarcely a pause for breath.

  Uh-oh. Joan was glad she had carried her coffee into the living room. She tucked her feet up under her on the sofa.

  “What’s on your mind, Cathy?”

  “It’s about that old house—you know, the one on Prospect Street, near the park.”

  “There are a lot of old houses on Prospect, Cathy.”

  “This one’s got a FOR SALE sign out front. But nobody’s ever going to buy it, see, because everyone knows it’s haunted. So when I thought I saw a ghost, there’s no way I was going to tell anyone, like you know what they’d say, but I know I saw a face in an upstairs window. It was dim, like a ghost, you know? Only now I’m sure it was that girl. You know, the violinist you found in the park. They had her picture on the late news Thursday night, getting into a Lincoln with her parents and a real hunk of a guy! I knew she was the girl I saw in the window. And then when I told people that, no one would believe me. I even called the police, but the snippiest thing answered the phone. I know she thought I was making it up. But you believe me, don’t you?”

  The old Dayhuff house, it had to be. “I certainly do, Cathy. And I promise I’ll check it out. This could be important.”

  With Cathy’s thanks ringing in her ears, she finished her coffee, pulled on her sneakers, and set out across the park. The old Dayhuff house made complete sense; Camila had been coming from that general direction. And that would explain why no one had noticed a strange woman in a fraternity house, or how someone else could have hidden her. But it would have been risky, even in a house known to be haunted. What if some prospective buyer had wanted to tour the house while she was there?

  She circled the old brick house, looking for signs of a break-in, but it seemed securely locked. The doorknobs didn’t turn, and she couldn’t lift the sloping cellar door. All the leaded windowpanes appeared intact, if dirty; no wonder the face Cathy saw had looked dim. She’d seen it “through a glass, darkly,” in the words of St. Paul.

  How to get inside? Of course.

  She walked downtown to Floriana Real Estate, the company listed on the sign. A loud bell jangled when she opened the door, and a bored-looking blonde with too much mousse in her hair hung up the phone and straightened out of her slouch.

  “Can I help you?” She popped her gum.

  “I hope so. I’d like to look at the old Dayhuff house, on Prospect.”

  The receptionist gave Joan’s jeans and sneakers the once-over, but apparently they passed muster, because she typed a few keys on the computer in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t show that house until Monday. If you’ll leave your name and phone number, I can set up an appointment for you then. It’s a lovely old house, in excellent condition. You could move right in.” Had she seen the state of the windows?

  “I don’t understand. It’s been for sale for months, hasn’t it?”

  Twirling a strand of that hair, the blonde said, “Maybe there’s a family illness.” She clicked a few more keys. “No, this house is vacant, and we have a lockbox on the door, so the owners don’t have to be there when we show it. People have all kinds of reasons.”

  “Couldn’t you find out why?”

  “It’s probably in the computer, but I don’t know how to find that out. We don’t need to know why. I can set you up an appointment, as I said.”

  “Who put it in?” By now, Joan was leaning over her desk, straining to see her computer screen.

  Sighing elaborately while she hauled a list out of a file in her bottom desk drawer, the woman popped her gum again and ran a finger down the list. “It’s some Realtor in an Indianapolis branch of the firm.”

  “Look, I think someone may have used the house in the commission of a crime. Can you identify this person?”

  “Really? Gosh, let me look it up.” Suddenly interested, she typed rapidly, and then swung the screen around so that Joan could see the name.

  Gail Inman, Joan read. That’s odd, she thought. Gail did mention at the picnic that she had the Dayhuff listing. And she didn’t like it when her husband paid too much attention to Camila. But she wouldn’t abduct her!

  Still, it’s Gail who kept the house from being shown.

  Or maybe she didn’t. Nate Lloyd is staying with Gail. I was already wondering about Nate, and here’s a possible link to him. It’s not hard to picture Nate finding out how to get into Gail’s computer to send a message that would keep everyone out of his hair while he kept Camila in hiding all weekend. And Nate was there when Gail was talking about the house.

  “Ma’am?” The blonde was looking at her funny. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh—oh, sure. Thanks. Thanks for your help.”

  Time to tell Fred. Sure of finding him there today, she set out for the police station.

  This time the clerk at the desk called for Fred almost before she asked to see him.

  “He’ll be right down, Mrs. Spencer. Won’t you have a seat?”

  Joan thanked her, but decided to stand rather than wait on that bench.

  “What brought you out so early?” Fred said after he’d kissed her hello right there in front of God and everybody.

  “Oh, Fred, I think I found the house.”

  “The … you mean where Camila was held? Where? How?”

  “It’s the old Dayhuff place, on Prospect.” He looked blank. “A brick house with limestone windows, near the park. There’s a FOR SALE sign out front.”

  “Oh, that house.”

  But from the expression on his face, she doubted that he had the foggiest idea which house she meant.

  “Come on, show me. And tell me why you think so.” He held the heavy front door for her, and automatically headed for his car.

  Why not? It would save a little time. She started with Cathy’s phone call. “The girl’s a little flighty, Fred, but I thought she might have seen something, especially when she said she recognized Camila’s face on the news.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Then I checked with the real estate firm, and learned that the house couldn’t be shown until next Monday.”

  “Really.” His tone was neutral, but his pupils widened. He turned onto Prospect.

  “I got the receptionist to show me who put that into their computer, and when she called it up, the name on the screen was Gail Inman.”

  “Who’s Gail Inman?”

  “The Realtor across the street from Camila’s host family. She
mentioned this house at the picnic—you met her. She’s a member of the same firm—I guess it’s an Indianapolis company with a branch down here, although this receptionist talked as if it were the other way around. Gail’s hosting Nate Lloyd.”

  “So maybe she was too busy to show it this week.”

  “Maybe, but they have a system that lets any real estate agency show it. They keep the keys to the house in a lockbox on the door. Anyone who knows the combination can open it. If someone else sells it, Gail will have to split her commission, but that hardly seems like a reason to keep it off the market, once they put the box on.”

  “That the one?” He pointed down the block.

  “That’s it. It’s locked up tight.”

  He checked it as she had, and peered through the dirty windows. “Guess we’d better get that combination.”

  When he showed his badge, the receptionist didn’t hesitate to write it down for him, though she carefully shaded her paper from Joan’s eyes.

  “Do you really think it was involved in a crime? I’ll bet if someone got murdered in one of our houses, everybody’d want to see it. It would sell in no time!”

  “Hate to let you down,” Fred said, “but we don’t expect to find a body.”

  At the house, he punched the numbers on the lockbox and reached for the keys. The front door opened smoothly; maybe the house was in better shape than the windows would suggest.

  “Keep your hands in your pockets,” Fred said.

  Indoors, Joan admired the gum woodwork and the carved cherry mantelpiece. This was a lovely place, after all. Even the oak floors looked as if one good polishing would make them shine. Some of the Dayhuffs’ old furniture was still there, draped with covers on which a thick layer of dust suggested that they hadn’t been disturbed for months. But most of the dust on the floor had retreated into corners, away from the obvious traffic pattern. That figured; the house must have been shown often enough for prospective buyers to have done that much.

  No sign of recent habitation downstairs—until they reached the kitchen, where several pans in the sink held the dried remnants of some soup or stew, with dirty spoons and bowls tucked into them. Empty soup cans in the wastebasket revealed the source. Nothing fresh, though. Had a homeless person broken in and found food? But if that’s what had happened, why was the house so securely locked? Even though the door locked automatically when it was closed, there would have been broken glass or something to show how such a person got in.