The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “Upstairs,” Fred said quietly.

  She climbed the steep steps, following him so closely that she could feel his warmth. The stairs opened beside a linen cupboard set into the back wall at the end of a narrow hallway. Through the open door to the cupboard she saw sheets and towels neatly stacked inside, but the bottom shelves were almost bare. One crumpled blanket suggested what they had held.

  Moving clockwise, Fred silently opened the doors to the bedrooms and the bathroom one after another, methodically checking each clothes closet as well. From her spot out in the hall, Joan could see that no one was sneaking out of another room to escape him.

  Finally he opened the door to the back bedroom nearest her, on the side of the house that faced away from the park. “Bingo,” he said.

  Joan looked in. On the floor in the corner farthest from the windows, a tangle of blankets and sheets made a rough pallet. Nearer to the door was a collection of dirty glasses and bowls with dried leftovers that looked like the soup in the kitchen pots.

  Then she saw it. In the opposite corner, almost hidden in the shadows, a rectangular violin case in a crisp brown zippered cover lay flat on the floor.

  “Oh, Fred!” She ran over and knelt beside it.

  “Don’t touch it.”

  “But it looks like Camila’s case. It might be her violin!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Where was her head? Not that they could get much off a violin case—or could they? The handle was a smooth surface. “You expect to find fingerprints on it?”

  “Maybe, but they’ll probably turn out to be Camila’s. I want photos of this room exactly as we found it, and I want our techs to check everything, not just the case, before it’s disturbed. But first we need a search warrant, especially for this room and the kitchen. Until we get it, we just have to sit tight.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Maybe an hour. Maybe more. I’ll call the prosecutor.” He pulled a cellular phone from his pocket, punched the numbers, and spoke into it.

  Without trying to listen, she heard him say “violin case” and then “food.” Of course, he’d want to test the remains of whatever Camila had been given to eat and drink. His second call was to Captain Altschuler, and the jubilation in his voice was a joy to hear.

  Joan resigned herself to waiting for the warrant and the police to arrive. For lack of a more comfortable spot, she sat down at the top of the stairs. His calls completed, Fred joined her and took her hand in his big paw.

  “Looks as if the kid who phoned you had it right.”

  “Uh-huh. Even if there’s no violin in the case. Someone lured her here by promising to take her to her violin. So she brought her case along to take it back.”

  “Funny no one mentioned that her case was missing.”

  “Not really,” she said. “The case wasn’t stolen in the first place; that’s why she didn’t miss the violin until she arrived at the Indiana Repertory Theatre with her case to play in the semifinals. I saw her carrying it home that night. But later one of the judges lent her a violin to practice on. She must have left that one at the Schmalzes’ in its own case when she disappeared. With another fiddle case in the room, maybe no one noticed for a while that hers was missing, but I’ll bet her family knows the difference. And I’m sure the judge who lent her a violin has taken it back by now.”

  “If you’re right, this case is probably empty.” He looked at his watch.

  “I know. Especially if it was fraternity guys from down here who kept her here. How could they get to her violin?”

  “How could they get into this house?”

  “All they’d need was the combination. Any cute guy could distract that blonde in the office long enough for one of his pals to sneak a peek at the combination.”

  “She wrote it from memory.”

  “Easier yet. He tells her he’s studying real estate law and—oh, I don’t know what line he’d use. But the man who tricked Camila into coming here would have thought of something.”

  26

  Eventually the warrant arrived, and with it a small army. Some of them began their search down in the kitchen, where Joan could hear pots banging, and the rest started working in the room where the violin case still lay unopened on the floor. She had lived through some of this routine before, although not without a body in the next room. What a difference it made to know that Camila was safe in the bosom of her family, instead.

  She moved out of the way, but once they were all in the bedroom, she sat back down at the top of the stairs. There was probably no point in waiting, really. Fred knew everything she did. But he had asked her to stay, and until he asked her to leave, she intended to wait for the great opening of the violin case.

  Wouldn’t it be something if the Stradivarius were in it? she thought. Dream on.

  She was leaning against the banister when he called her. “Joan, come on in and see this.”

  “Okay.” A little stiff, she got to her feet and went into the room.

  “I told them they had to wait for you.” The blue eyes crinkled into a smile. “If that kid hadn’t trusted you, who knows how long it would have taken us to find this?” Still wearing thin plastic gloves, he unzipped the cover, opened the latches on the case inside, and lifted the lid. The others crowded around and stared.

  Joan gasped. Cushioned on crushed velvet, a violin that exactly fit the case lay inside a silk bag with a drawstring at the scroll end. Again, the cameras clicked. Fred picked up the violin, loosened the drawstring, and slid the silk off.

  “Is it hers?” he asked her.

  “I think so. I never saw it this close before, but it looks right.” It looked more than right; it was a thing of quiet beauty. Whether or not there was musical magic in Stradivari’s varnish, as some said, its translucent quality gave a warm reddish glow to the instrument. She felt she could look deep into the wood of the spruce top and curly maple sides. “Let me see the back, Fred.”

  He turned the violin over. The back, also curly maple, glowed even more warmly than the top. Didn’t they say there was a flame to it? Joan could see why. And without knowing much about it, she could appreciate the workmanship. Even she could see that the two-piece back was split exactly down the middle. And the purfling that ornamented the edges was elegantly beveled and precisely aligned at the points.

  Fred peered through one of the f-holes. “I don’t see a label.”

  “You can’t always see them. Besides, labels don’t mean much. They copy his labels in all the imitations. Fred, we have to take it to Camila. She’ll know instantly if it’s hers.”

  “I can’t imagine dusting it for prints; besides, the handle of the case was wiped clean, and the violin has probably been in the bag the whole time. The police report said the bag was missing with it. Do you want to hold it?”

  “Could I?” What a thrill, if it truly was the Strad. She took it from him with more care than she ever gave her poor viola and was surprised by how light it was, even compared to most violins. Rubbing her hand gently over the smooth back, she felt the wood trying to vibrate. When she tapped it, it seemed to want to sing. “It’s so alive.”

  “The bows are in the case, too.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” She handed the violin back to him, and relaxed. “If this isn’t Camila’s Strad, it’s somebody’s beautiful instrument. How many of those would you expect to find in this house?”

  “Strad?” said one of the officers. “You think this is the missing Stradivarius?”

  “Sure looks like it,” Fred said. He was grinning openly now. “We’ll notify the IPD and see how they want us to proceed from here.”

  “Fred, what if they want to hang onto it, as evidence? Camila’s supposed to perform tonight, if she’s up to it. She ought to have her own violin as soon as possible.”

  “You’re right. I’ll tell the IPD we’re taking it up, and they can be there when she identifies it. If it’s hers, there’s no way her mother will let
them take it from her. That woman’s a tiger.”

  “I’d love to see that.”

  “Let’s go, then.” He slid the violin back into its silk bag and tucked it into the case. Then he turned the crime scene over to the others, and they left, with Fred carrying the violin under his arm.

  They stopped by the station long enough for Fred to check in again with Warren Altschuler and place a couple of calls to Indianapolis. Sitting across his desk from him, Joan could hear Camila’s shriek when he told her he thought they had found her violin.

  “Yes, I’m leaving now to bring it to you. Yes, I know how to find the house.”

  In the car, he said, “She sounded much closer to normal than when they left on Thursday.”

  “That makes sense. Did you ever hear what the drug was?”

  “Roofies, as we thought, and now we can test what’s left of the soup in the house for them. They ought to be wearing off by now.”

  “Sure, but enough to play the violin at that level?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Even if they’re completely gone, she’s missed almost a whole week of practice.”

  “No one is making light of what happened to her. But taking her the violin is about all we can do for her.”

  “I know. Even catching whoever did it isn’t going to help her.”

  “Not this week. But it may give her some comfort in the long run. I’m glad to have another chance to question her.”

  “Fred, you wouldn’t! Not today, of all days.”

  “I’m not going to push. But if she remembers more and feels like talking about it, you can bet I’m going to listen.”

  Would you listen to me? she thought. But she couldn’t bring herself to say what was bothering her.

  Fewer cars lined the quiet residential street than on the night before, but a marked police car was parked in the Schmalzes’ driveway. At least they’ve turned their flashers off, Joan thought as she followed Fred up to the curved stone porch.

  The door flew open before they could ring the bell. The vibrant young woman in the doorway bore little resemblance to the vacant, matted creature Joan and Bruce had found in the park.

  “My violin!” Camila cried, and would have grabbed it if Fred had let her.

  “Let’s do this indoors.”

  “Of course, come in.” She held the door wide for them.

  A small crowd was gathered in the Schmalzes’ living room. Camila quickly introduced the others. Joan recognized Harry and Violet Schmalz, who looked considerably less distraught than when she had met them at the Osbornes’ the night Camila disappeared. Was that only Monday? she thought. Hard to believe.

  “My mother and father, Isadora and Moacir Pereira.” Camila indicated the handsome, well-dressed couple and, in rapid Portuguese, introduced Joan Spencer, evidently explaining about having used her house, because their expressions instantly turned to smiles and they came forward to shake her hand.

  Fred greeted them without needing to be introduced.

  “And my boyfriend, Rodrigo Machado. Rodrigo, this is Joan Spencer.”

  “I am happy to meet you,” the good-looking young man said, and they shook hands. “Camila’s parents and I appreciate your kindness in her time of trouble.”

  Two men in suits who had been standing to one side came forward now, and Joan recognized them as the two IPD detectives who had questioned her about Bruce.

  “Detective Richardson,” the quiet one introduced himself to Fred. “And my partner, Detective Richards.” More handshakes.

  “Fred Lundquist. Doesn’t that cause confusion, the two of you together?”

  “It was worse when we were assigned to other partners,” said Richards, the older, louder one. “Now we don’t care if they mix us up. We’re on the same case, see, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Camila’s eyes had hardly left the violin case.

  “Here you go,” Fred said, and handed it to her. “Is this your case?”

  “Yes. There is a little spot on one corner—see?” When she unzipped it, Joan doubted that the tremble in her hands had anything to do with roofies. Laying the case on a table, Camila slid the violin out of the silk bag and checked it all over. Tears ran down her face, and she said, “Yes, this is my violin. How can I thank you enough?”

  “Make beautiful music on it,” Fred said. “But you should know that it was Joan who found it.”

  “And Uwe Frech,” Joan said quickly. Maybe, with all their money, the Pereiras could do something for Uwe.

  “Uwe? But he’s here.”

  “He told schoolchildren here and in Oliver how they could help search for you and the violin. One girl who heard him thought she had seen your face in the window of an old house in Oliver. She told me, and that’s where we found your violin.”

  “After the competition, it would help us if you would come back to Oliver and look at that house,” Fred said.

  Still clasping the violin, Camila looked dreamy. “A window, yes. I remember staring out a window. Upstairs. Was I upstairs?”

  He nodded. “We think so.”

  “I could see the children walking to school, or maybe home after school. But I couldn’t go to them.”

  “You were drugged, dear,” Joan said.

  “And I remember riding in the car, too fast. Did we hit a dog? I think we hit a big dog.” The horror of it crossed her face.

  “I still haven’t heard about a missing dog, but I’ll find out,” Fred promised.

  Camila’s mother spoke to her, and Camila answered in Portuguese.

  “She says Camila must stop talking now,” Rodrigo said. “She plays tonight.”

  “But tonight I play my own violin!” Camila said, joyous again. “Thank you for finding it and bringing it to me.” Handing the precious instrument to her mother, she threw her arms around Joan and then Fred, kissing them both.

  Rodrigo began herding them to the door.

  “If she remembers more, be sure to call us,” Richardson said.

  “Yes, of course,” Rodrigo said.

  And they left.

  “What do you think?” Fred asked Joan as they walked back to the car. “Can she play tonight?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t see how she can win.”

  27

  On the drive back to Oliver, something nagged at Joan, but at first she couldn’t make it come to the surface. This must be how Camila felt, trying to dredge up deeply buried memories. Or were hers completely erased by the drug? Would they ever return?

  “Didn’t she mention a dog before?” she asked Fred.

  “Yes, when we were driving her around Oliver. But this is the first time she said anything about hitting it.”

  “What if it wasn’t a dog they hit? Oh, Fred, maybe they hit Kyle Pruitt! Wasn’t that the same day she disappeared?”

  He nodded slowly. “And not that far from the Dayhuff house. In the right direction, too. They could have met him on the way down. That would explain why they didn’t stop, if the driver was in the process of committing a felony. That’s not accidental death.”

  “There’s something I know that just won’t come, and I’m almost sure it has to do with all this.” She stared out the window at houses and parked cars as they came into Oliver. Suddenly a mental image of Gail’s car parked in her Indianapolis driveway wiped out the ones her eyes were seeing.

  Gail Inman’s white station wagon, with the firm’s logo on the front door. Was it possible? Had Gail been the fast driver who scared Camila? Was it her white Ford Timmy remembered? Was Gail the person who killed Kyle Pruitt? Had her car been in her driveway again today? She couldn’t remember.

  Fred pulled up to the station and heard her out, but he shook his head at her last question. “I wouldn’t have missed a white Ford wagon with damage to the right front parking light.”

  “Maybe it was already fixed.”

  “If it was, we’ll find out.”

  “We could ask the neighbors. The Schmalzes were so upset about Camila.
”

  “They were probably too upset to be paying much attention to Gail’s parking lights.”

  “How about Polly Osborne? She’s another house farther down the street, but she might have noticed.”

  “We could start there. You have her number?”

  Joan fumbled in her shoulder bag. “Somewhere in here.” She dug out the slip of paper on which she’d written Bruce’s name and the Osbornes’ phone number and handed it to him.

  “Come on in.” They went up to his office together, and she parked on his straight chair while he phoned Polly. He reached her on the first try.

  “Polly, this is Fred Lundquist, down in Oliver. No, she’s fine. But I wonder if you could help our memories. Did we remember right that Gail Inman drives a green Cadillac? Oh, I see. Any chance you’d know whether it’s been in the shop recently? Something about a fender bender?” He waited, and then nodded. “I see. Thanks, Polly. I sure had that all wrong.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s a white Ford station wagon with the company logo, all right. But she’s been driving it all week, and there’s not so much as a scratch on it.”

  “She could be wrong about that. How long would it take to get a light repaired in Indianapolis, anyway?”

  “I’ll talk to Richardson and Richards. Call their attention to the APB we already have out on the car. They owe us. And if you’re right, the IPD will need to be in on it anyway.”

  “Fred, can you really see Gail Inman kidnapping Camila?”

  “Who knows? We can dig into motive after we’re sure about the rest of it. Maybe she thought the girl was making a play for her husband.”

  “She did, you know.” And she told him what she’d seen at the picnic. “But …”