“But you don’t think that’s enough?”
Joan thought of Catherine Turner’s fury at her. Would a person as angry as Catherine resort to something that terrible? Was Gail that angry? Was she herself?
I’ve wasted a perfectly good trip when I could have talked that out with Fred. But now there’s no time. “I’d better go home,” she said, and got to her feet. “We missed lunch, but we can have an early supper. Bruce got us a couple of tickets to the last concert. Will you come?”
“Not tonight. I’ll grab a burger. I want to follow this up.”
“Okay to talk to Andrew?” She said it without thinking.
“Sure. But keep it in the family for now.”
“Really? You don’t suspect Andrew anymore?”
“Who told you that?” He glowered up at her.
“Catherine. Somebody showed her his photograph.” She tried to fight it, but she heard the bitterness seep into her voice.
“Damn! I never meant for you to know about that, least of all from her. Andrew’s a good kid. I was sure he was innocent, but I wouldn’t have been doing my job if I hadn’t given people a chance to ID him. They didn’t, of course, any more than they ID’d Bruce. I knew Catherine lived in that neighborhood. I should have told you, but it never occurred to me she’d know he was your son.”
“She met him in church once.”
“I would never have put you through this if I’d realized that.”
“Come on, Fred. There must be other people in that neighborhood who would recognize Andrew.” Her voice rose. “In a town this size, everyone knows everyone. And how could you not trust me enough to tell me? That’s what really hurts.”
His face was stricken, but he let her pour it out before answering. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you were feeling this bad. I was trying to protect you, but it backfired.” He got up from behind his desk, took her hands, and looked into her eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
“What about the next time? Will you trust me next time?”
“I trust you with my life. And there won’t be a next time. I promise never to put you in that position again.”
She stretched up to kiss him. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
“You forgive me?”
“Yes.” And she did. Just hearing him say the words made a huge difference to her. Not that he would never make her mad again, but that he cared about how she felt.
“And you’ll still marry me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ve got the rubella certificate, and the minister says he doesn’t need much notice. Today was the only day he had a conflict. He’d like to talk with us ahead of time, though.”
“What about?”
“He seems to think we’re past Sex 101, but he’s got a little book about how to fight fair.”
“Good idea. If we’d had one of those, I might still be married to old what’s-her-name.”
She grinned. “You can talk about Linda all you like and I won’t care.”
“A secure woman. I like that.” His eyes crinkled, and he kissed her again. “Come on, I’ll walk you downstairs.”
Walking home, she admired the crisp blue sky, crunched leaves underfoot, and sniffed the wonderful autumn smell, but she knew she would have felt just as good if it had been pouring.
Andrew met her at the red front door that still startled her, much as she liked it. “You look happy.”
“I am happy. Let’s go get a pizza, and then I’ll take you to a concert.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. Shutting the door behind him, he came down the steps, and they set off on foot for the pizza place. “More violins?”
“The last three play tonight. No, just two, because they moved Bruce to last night. Nate and Camila will play tonight. She’s supposed to do both her concertos.”
“Can she?”
“We’ll find out. Bruce got us a couple of tickets, but Fred’s not going.”
“Sure, I’ll go. I felt sorry for her on Thursday.”
“She seems a lot better today.”
“You saw her?”
“That’s right, you don’t know. Andrew, we found her violin!”
“That’s great! Where?”
“In an old house that’s for sale here in Oliver. Not far from where we found her on Thursday. We took it up to her.”
“So you think that’s where she was all that time?”
“Looks like it. There were blankets on the floor, and someone had fed her soup. Probably roofies in it—that’s the drug she was given, Fred says.”
“I guess they’re easy to come by. How did they lock her in?”
“No need. She was too dopey to go anywhere. When the stuff finally wore off enough, she just walked out the door.”
“So who did it?”
“That’s the question. Do you remember meeting Gail Inman at the picnic?”
“Not really.” He grinned. “I was kind of noticing Camila, if you want to know.”
“It didn’t escape me entirely. Gail’s a little older than I am. Nate Lloyd’s staying with her, so you’ll probably see her tonight, but you mustn’t mention this to anyone. We don’t know that she did it. We do know she’s a Realtor, and she fixed it so no one would go into this house while Camila was there.”
“Why?”
“Good question.”
“And you think she’ll be there tonight?”
“I’m sure she will. Her violinist is playing. The host families always go when their violinists play.”
“You don’t think …”
“What?”
“That she’d go off the deep end about having a violinist in the house?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“I suppose, but I imagine it will come down to something much more straightforward. Camila made a play for Gail’s husband.”
“She’s a flirt, that’s the truth. But why would she mess around with a middle-aged man?”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Watch your mouth, kid. I’m partial to a middle-aged man, myself.”
Andrew helped her make short work of a large pepperoni-mushroom pizza and a salad; the pizza place had the crispest salads in Oliver. Comfortably filled, they walked back home for the car. Neighbors sitting out on their front porches waved, and ordinarily she would have stopped here and there to chat, but tonight there wasn’t time. Quickly, she changed clothes and grabbed her pearls, and they were off.
Their seats were in the same row as on the night before, but when they hurried down the aisle behind the usher, she was delighted to see Bruce’s red head sticking up above Polly’s blond one.
“Want to sit by Bruce?” she asked Andrew.
“Sure.”
They’d scarcely exchanged greetings when the lights dimmed. The orchestra was already silent, and the concertmaster had taken his seat after tuning.
“That was a little too close,” she murmured to Andrew.
“Don’t sweat it, Mom. We made it.”
The applause rolled up now for the conductor and, right behind him, Nate Lloyd. He checked his strings against the oboe and stood waiting. Joan thought of his mother, who must be in the audience somewhere. Nail-biting time.
The voice announced that Mr. Lloyd would play Lalo’s Symphonie Espagnole, but Joan couldn’t have mistaken the orchestra’s opening notes: Bum-bum-bah, bum-bum-bum-bah. In her head, she sang along with the violas. When had she last played this piece? Much too long ago to remember the soloist.
Nate leaned into the driving rhythm, taking the fast runs as if they were nothing. No question about his keeping up with the orchestra at any speed. More likely, they had to work to keep up with him. In the second movement, the triplet runs were, if anything, even faster. The orchestra’s chords and pizzicatti kept beating time while Nate’s violin sang and danced over them. Then the low Gypsy melody in the Intermezzo, and the violin’s new tune that flicked up to high notes that had to be harmonics. Nate
was playing with a little smile on his face. More runs and flips and trills, and still another melody. Amazing, how many melodies Lalo had lavished on this concerto.
At last, the Andante movement, and a chance to draw breath while Nate played a melody of great sweetness, with an even more Gypsy-sounding beat. Then the Rondo’s triplets swelled and waned in the orchestra before the violin began dancing over them. Joan remembered playing those driving triplets, on and on and on. It was certainly more fun to sit back and listen to Nate fly all over the instrument. He ended in a flourish of runs, spiccato, trills, finger pizzes, and one great chord that cried out, “Clap for me!”
Not that they needed to be told. Most of the audience was standing. Does that make any difference to the judges? Probably not. Has to make his mother feel good, though. Not that she’d need any help, after that performance.
The lights came up for intermission.
“See you later,” Bruce said. “I’m going to catch Nate if I can.” He edged past Andrew and Joan to the already-clogged aisle.
“I don’t know, Mom,” Andrew said. “He’s awfully good.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Polly said, moving over to the seat Bruce had left and turning sideways to talk to both of them. “And you know, all these violinists are used to being the very best wherever they come from.”
“How is Bruce holding up?” Joan asked.
“Oh, now that his competition is over, he seems amazingly cheerful about whatever the judges decide. But I don’t expect him to come in fifth this time, as he did in Moscow.”
“Not for lack of competition.”
“No, all these top players are superb. For her sake, I hope Camila is up to them now.” Polly shook her head.
“Have you seen her?”
“Not yet.”
“She was better today,” Joan said. “I don’t think you could tell that anything had happened to her, but of course, that’s a long way from playing at this level. Oh, you don’t know the good news. Her violin turned up in Oliver this morning. Fred and I brought it up to her.”
“That’s wonderful! Not harmed?”
“No, in its own case, apparently untouched.”
“I’m so happy for her,” Polly said. “And ashamed of suspecting that she’d fake a theft. Where did they find it?”
Time to be a little evasive. “I don’t think they’re talking about that yet.”
Polly didn’t push, and Joan leaned back and rested her eyes for a few seconds. Then someone was tapping her shoulder.
“Mom, wake up!” Andrew said. “Bruce can’t get past you.”
“I’m not asleep,” she protested and straightened up quickly to let Bruce slide by. “It’s been a long day.”
“I hated to disturb you, but they’re about to start.” Looking as embarrassed as she felt, he squeezed past her.
The orchestra was tuning again. The lights dimmed, and the conductor came onstage with Camila, who looked almost like her radiant self in a flowing white gown bare on top except for shoulder straps that looked strong enough to let her relax about her dress while playing. She flashed a smile and bowed beautifully to the applause.
The voice announced that Camila Pereira would play the Sibelius concerto. Amazing, Joan thought, how many great composers wrote only one violin concerto.
Camila’s first melodic passage sounded appropriately intense for Sibelius, but the arpeggios that followed it were a little unsure, and her spiccato bowing not as sharp as it had been a week earlier. She had a little respite, then, while the orchestra took over. Then octave double stops before and over the low viola solo that Joan herself had once played in an orchestra so viola-poor that she had sat in the first chair.
As the first movement progressed, Camila’s octaves, trills, and runs just didn’t live up to her true ability. Her performance would certainly have been passable in ordinary company, but Joan ached for her.
The conductor was watching her grimly. They probably hadn’t rehearsed until sometime today, to give her the best chance of being ready. What a challenge for all of them, and what a shame.
The second movement went much better, with the lush legato theme played over horns and cello pizzicatti. Camila had her tone back and was certainly musical. Only the coordination and dexterity that had let her race through the technically hard spots seemed to be affected. But in a competition in which a hairsbreadth separated the winners from the losers, that was like Bob Osborne’s telling Uwe Frech that only his hand was injured.
In the last movement, she lagged behind the tempo by just that hairsbreadth, seeming to lack enough control over the bow to drive the rhythmic dance forward as it needed to move. By the time she had to play the melody in harmonics, she was far enough off pitch to be embarrassing, and her spiccato double stops were a lost cause. Gamely, she struggled on to the end, but her fatigue was obvious.
At last, with tears streaming down her face, she took only one quick bow and hurried off, to sympathetic applause. Her parents must be in the audience, Joan thought. They know how she played before. How can they stand it?
“Poor thing,” Polly said. “And now she’s coming back to play Mozart?”
“Looks like it,” Bruce said. “They left the order up to her.” Members of the orchestra had already departed from the stage, leaving a much smaller Mozart orchestra. But although the lights stayed down, neither the conductor nor Camila returned. The audience was beginning to murmur.
At last the announcer’s voice spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that Miss Pereira has been taken ill and will be unable to continue.”
A collective “Ohhh” rose from the audience. The orchestra left the stage considerably faster than the audience could file out of the theater.
“What a shame,” Joan said.
“She probably would have won the gold,” Bruce said. “But we’ll never know.”
“You wouldn’t turn it down, would you?” Andrew said.
“No, but it’s tarnished now, no matter who wins.”
28
In the lobby, Polly invited them back to her house again.
“Thanks,” Joan said. “But I think I’d better go home and sleep.” It had been quite a day, and all the walking was beginning to catch up with her. No, it had already caught up with her.
Polly didn’t pressure her. “Tomorrow, then, after the awards.”
She hadn’t intended to wait in line to congratulate Nate, but it was a chance to chat with Bruce while avoiding the extra drive to Polly’s. It was fun to listen to Andrew and Bruce together.
Nate accepted the praise being showered on him gracefully enough. He looked relaxed, as well he might.
“Do you know where Camila is?” Andrew asked, when it was his turn.
Nate shrugged. “Sorry. I think she left.”
In the parking garage elevator, Andrew offered to drive, and Joan was grateful. She’d had to do everything herself for so long that she sometimes forgot to let go. Soon she’d be able to count on Fred, too, except, of course, when he’d have to put her second to the job. Just as well she knew how to fend for herself. No cop could have much of a marriage to a clinging vine.
When Andrew backed out of the parking space Joan saw Gail Inman’s white Ford with the Floriana logo taking the first slow right turn down the ramp in front of them. She turned her head, not really wanting to wave at Gail tonight, but Andrew was already waving. Before she could stop him, he rolled down his window, and called out, “Hey, Nate! Nice job tonight! Congratulations!”
“Thanks!” The car oozed around the next turn and was gone from sight. Andrew had stalled the stick-shift Honda and had to restart it.
“Nate was driving? That was Gail’s car.” Had Nate borrowed the car, too, not just the computer? No, he was probably just riding with his hostess.
“Nate was in the passenger seat. But it looked like his mom driving.”
“His mom drives a blue sedan, not a white wagon. We parked behind her last night, don’t you
remember?”
“Not tonight, she doesn’t. Maybe she borrowed Gail’s.”
“Maybe.” But a long-buried image was pushing its way up through the layers of her consciousness. Cindy Lloyd, offering to drive Uwe to the doctor after he broke his hand, pointing to her car. And that car was a white wagon with a company logo on it. What company? The image wasn’t that clear, but she, too, was a Realtor.
Suddenly it all fit.
“Andrew, catch up to them when they pay to get out of here. And hurry!”
“What for?”
“I want to see the license plate.”
“You’re weird, Mom.” But he sped up briefly to almost fifteen miles an hour, a breakneck descent in the confines and tight turns of the parking garage. Joan dug in her bag for a pen and something to write on.
“There they are. Slow down, so they won’t know we’re chasing them.”
“You’re the boss.” He slowed on the last stretch and pulled up decorously behind the white wagon.
Joan scribbled the numbers of the Kentucky plate on the back of a blank deposit slip. As far as she could tell, neither Cindy Lloyd nor her son was paying any attention to them.
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve got to take this to Fred.”
“Does that mean I can speed and he’ll fix it?”
“Not on your life. There’s no hurry now.”
“We’ll never find the repair shop today,” Fred said when she called him Sunday morning.
“Maybe not, but Realtors have to keep office hours on Sunday afternoon; that’s when they hold their open houses.”
“How’d you like to go house hunting in Louisville?”
“I’d love it. Until you sweet-talk the gorgeous secretary. Then I’ll throw a hissy fit and get us out of there.”
Maybe they’d make it back in time for the medals ceremony at five, but she couldn’t count on it. Feeling the unusually cool breeze coming in her bedroom window, she put on a wool suit, just in case, with her pearls showing inside the jacket. For that matter, it wouldn’t pay to look down at the heel in a real estate office. The appearance of a certain prosperity would get them much better service. Not to mention having a man along. But with her suit, she wore oxfords. A person shopping for a house should seem prepared to do some walking.
The Vanishing Violinist Page 20