The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  Hoping Rebecca would understand if she didn’t make the ceremony, she gave the car keys to Andrew. “If I’m not back when it’s time to leave, you represent the family. Fred will get me there eventually.”

  “This all has to do with Camila?”

  “Yes.” No sense in piling the rest on him, not until she was sure.

  He turned away, not asking anything else.

  Fred picked her up just before eleven. Church bells were ringing all over Oliver. The town, while it had only one movie theater, offered an abundance of churches, including some denominations she’d never heard of before coming to southern Indiana. Jews, on the other hand, had to go all the way to Bloomington for services, as did the few Muslims in town, most of whom were connected to the college. Joan exchanged waves with Margaret Duffy, her old teacher, when they passed her on the sidewalk in front of Eric Young’s church.

  Quickly, they were out in the country, where the green wooded hillsides were dotted with red and gold. Fred drove south to Bloomington and east on 46, which wound through the hills and past Brown County State Park to Nashville, and then it was a straight shot past Gnaw Bone to just before Columbus, where he turned south on I-65. They enjoyed each other’s company without needing to say much.

  Near noon, Joan pulled out some fruit and cheese for lunch. They would have gone well with some of Fred’s sourdough bread, but it was a long time since he’d had a day free to bake. He held out his hand for her to drop in slices of apple and little bunches of grapes.

  “Pretty good service. If you don’t want to ‘obey,’ I’ll settle for ‘feed.’ ”

  “It’s a deal.”

  When they crossed the bridge into Louisville, she was glad he was driving. Making all the quick choices without hesitation, he found his way into the city, stopped briefly to consult a city map, and didn’t pause again until they pulled up in front of Floriana Real Estate.

  “Very impressive.”

  “I memorized it ahead of time. Can’t have my best girl see me get lost.”

  “We could have asked someone.”

  “Men don’t ask.”

  She laughed. “I thought only women knew that.”

  “In a pinch, I might have paid a visit to the Louisville PD. A fraternal visit, you understand, nothing official. We may not have to involve them at all. Odds are good the car will be up in Indianapolis tonight, where Richards and Richardson are already primed. That would beat having to extradite a suspect across the state line.”

  He helped her out of the car and smoothed his jacket. She straightened his tie.

  “All right?” he said.

  “You look very nice.” She stroked his lapels, just in case anyone was watching. Not that I have to fake it, she thought.

  Inside the little frame house, the decor screamed country cute. Everything that didn’t have ruffles stood or sat on curly wooden shelves nailed to the wall. A goose dressed in sun-bonnet and ruffled apron stopped the open door. With tobacco-stained fingers and half a dozen earrings, the receptionist seemed like an intruder, and her computer an anachronism.

  She uncrossed her long legs and stubbed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “May I help you?”

  Joan batted her eyes at Fred, clung to his arm, and waited.

  “We’d like to see Mrs. Lloyd,” he said, sounding a little stuffy and looking more than a little embarrassed.

  “She’s not here just now, sir. I’d be happy to ask one of our other Realtors to help you.”

  “Oh, Fred,” Joan wailed. “I don’t want to start all over again with someone else. Cindy knows exactly what we want in a house, and she’s found the perfect one for us in Oliver.”

  “Anything you say, dear.” He smiled down at the receptionist and spread his palms helplessly. “How long would we have to wait for her?”

  “Won’t you have a seat while I check? I don’t know if she’s left us her schedule.” They took the chintz-covered chairs she offered while she flipped through a book and then turned on the computer at her desk. “I’m sorry, but I don’t expect her in today at all. I can’t even reach her unless there’s an emergency.”

  “This is certainly an emergency.” Joan wondered whether she was laying it on too thick. “We’re being married in a couple of weeks. My fiancé drove all the way down from Oliver, Indiana, and now you tell me he’s made that trip for nothing? We’ve been more than patient. Last week she told us she was having car trouble.”

  “That’s true. She had a run of terrible luck. On Monday someone backed into her car. She drove it home, but I had to find her a loaner while she was getting it repaired. Then the loaner developed engine problems. She had to have it towed in Indianapolis Wednesday night and missed the appointment she had down here the next morning. Those folks were so upset I don’t think they’re going to buy the house, after all.” She hit some keys and read from the computer screen. “According to my records, she turned the loaner back in yesterday, so her car must be fixed. I don’t know why she’s not working today.”

  “They took their own sweet time about it.” Joan was enjoying the role of shrew. “What repair shop was that? I want to be sure to stay away from it.”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. All our Realtors drive their own personal cars.”

  “Even though they say Floriana Real Estate on the side?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Joan, dear, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” Fred said, the model of patience. “Let’s let this lovely young lady find us someone else.”

  “Only if she can find us someone who can show us Cindy’s house.”

  “What house is that, ma’am?” By now, the receptionist and Fred were beginning to slide each other sympathetic glances.

  “The old Dayhuff house, she called it, up in Oliver. On Prospect Street. My fiancé drove by it, but he couldn’t go in.”

  “The Oliver office said they couldn’t let me in,” Fred said. “So I came back here to pick up my intended, and to ask Cindy to show it to us.”

  More typing. “Cindy wouldn’t be able to show it to you today, either. Someone up in Indianapolis put a stop on it all this week, from last Monday morning to tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Indianapolis? But the house is in Oliver.”

  More typing. “It says here the owners live up there. Maybe the family wanted time to remove things from the house.”

  “That makes sense, dear,” Fred said. “I peered through those beautiful leaded windows and saw quite a bit of furniture under dustcovers. I had hoped some good antiques would be for sale with the house. But we shouldn’t bother Miss …” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

  “Twyla Owens.” She handed him her card.

  “Thank you, Miss Owens. You’ve been most helpful.” He smiled down at her.

  By rights, she should have melted at his feet.

  “We shouldn’t bother Miss Owens any further. If you like, dear, I’ll take you up to look at it from the outside.”

  “We’ll discuss it in the car,” Joan said in as frosty a tone as she could muster, and she let him steer her out by holding her elbow, a singularly unsupportive courtesy. As himself, Fred might have offered her his arm.

  They kept up the act until they pulled away, and then she burst out laughing. “You were good! Do you do that kind of thing often?”

  “No, mostly I flash my badge and beat ’em on the head with my nightstick.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Sometimes. Though we could have found out what we needed to know with half the trouble.”

  “I was having fun.”

  “I gathered that.” He smiled at her. “You’re a real ham, you know it?”

  “So, do you have enough?”

  “We know it’s her car, and that she reported damage to it on Monday. The license plate you got will confirm her ownership.”

  “Yes, and did you catch the part about the loaner’s having trouble on Wednesday? That would explain why Camila wasn’t doped up again Wednesday nig
ht.” She warmed to it. “There were no marks on her, and you and I didn’t find any kind of physical restraints in the house. She must have come to enough to walk out on Thursday morning.”

  “So we know it was Nate or his mother.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Nate,” Joan said, glad to be sure of what she’d only suspected the night before. She’d always felt sorry for Nate, in spite of his talent. “He was still at the Osbornes’ relaxing with Bruce Wednesday night when Cindy started off for Louisville before her loaner broke down. I saw her leave.”

  29

  In the end, they missed the awards ceremony and performances by the medalists. By the time Fred had verified with Richards and Richardson and the Louisville PD that Cynthia Lloyd had filed no police report either in Indianapolis or Louisville about having been backed into on Monday, they just made it before the people began leaving.

  Backed up by half a dozen units from the IPD, they quickly located Cindy Lloyd’s wagon parked on North Meridian across from the magnificent Scottish Rite Cathedral. Fred and Richardson agreed that all marked cars should back off to where they wouldn’t alarm her, but that Fred and Joan should approach as soon as they saw her and stick to her until she reached the car, where the two IPD detectives would wait to make the arrest.

  “What if Bruce and Andrew come out first?” Joan asked. “Won’t that seem strange, if I ignore them?”

  “You’ll think of something,” Fred said. “After watching your performance this afternoon, I’m not worried.”

  “I don’t know, Fred. I don’t feel so good about this.” Her insides were churning, not in fear, but in sympathy for the woman whose life they were about to destroy.

  “Neither did Kyle Pruitt’s mother.”

  “That’s a low blow. You fight dirty.”

  He looked into her eyes for a moment. “This is dirty business. But I don’t want to pressure you. We can do it without you.”

  “All right, I’ll do it.”

  The mechanics of it turned out to be surprisingly easy. Bruce and Andrew did emerge together, and trotted down to meet them at the curb.

  “Mom, you missed it. He won the silver medal! And the award for the best performance of the—what was it, Bruce?”

  “The Quigley.” Carrying his violin case, Bruce was wearing the silver medal around his neck.

  Joan hugged him. “Congratulations, son! That’s wonderful news.”

  “Nate won the gold,” he said. “He really deserved it, especially with that last performance. I think he might have won even if Camila had been herself yesterday. They did give her the award for the best Bach performance in Phase I of the competition. You should have heard the crowd when she went up to accept it.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I’m happy for Nate, too. Is he still in there?”

  “Oh, sure. He won’t be out for a while yet. There’s a swarm around him. Photographers and all that. All the attention’s on him now, so we got away fast.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not winning first? No. This is better than I dared hope for. Andrew’s driving me back to the Osbornes’ to call Rebecca, and my folks, of course. And Polly’s planned a shindig in my honor before I fly home tonight—you know Polly.”

  “We’ll come by. Anyhow, I will. Fred may have to drop me off.”

  “Congratulations, Bruce.” Fred shook his hand warmly. “I only wish I could have heard more of it.”

  “Thanks.” Bruce seemed hardly to notice that Fred’s eyes had already returned to scanning the crowd. “See you later.”

  Joan watched them down the sidewalk, the tall redhead who could hardly wait to call her daughter, and the familiar head of dark curls beside him. That’s almost exactly how Bruce would look with Rebecca, except that he’d tower over her.

  “I do like that young man,” she said. “And the next time I see him, I can tell him he no longer has to worry about being anybody’s suspect. I can tell him that, can’t I?”

  Without turning his attention away from the crowd, Fred said, “Absolutely, as soon as she’s under arrest.”

  Joan fell silent then, and her happiness faded. For all that she’d been so eager to help Fred deal with the hit-and-run, and to remove the suspicion from Bruce, not to mention Andrew, what was about to happen hurt even to think about. And yet she couldn’t fool herself into thinking that what had already happened had been totally accidental. The message in the Floriana computer proved that Cindy had planned at least part of it ahead of time. Obviously she, not Gail, had used Gail’s computer to leave that message, and according to the Floriana receptionist in Louisville, she’d blocked the house from being shown ever since Monday morning.

  Camila hadn’t disappeared until Monday afternoon, but the violin had been missing since Sunday. Staying with the Inmans, Cindy’d had access to the Schmalzes’ house keys, and that speech she’d made on Sunday about racing back from Louisville to Nate’s semifinal concert had been nothing but a ruse to establish her alibi for stealing the violin. Maybe she’d thought taking the violin would guarantee her son’s victory, but when Camila triumphed on a borrowed fiddle, she’d taken more drastic measures.

  Kyle Pruitt had probably just come riding along at exactly the wrong time. Unless, of course, he’d noticed anything suspicious about the young woman in Cindy’s car—or tried to pull it over for speeding. Had she mowed him down intentionally? And even if she hadn’t, wasn’t it murder if she’d killed him even by accident while committing another crime?

  “There they are.” Fred’s voice was soft in her ear. “Let’s go.” He took her hand, and she started forward with him, waving to Cindy and Nate as she went. They met halfway to the door. Like Bruce, Nate wore his violin case slung over his shoulder and his medal around his neck.

  “Congratulations!” Joan said with sincere warmth. “Bruce and Andrew just left. They had to tell us you won; we missed the whole thing.”

  “So you know he got the silver, and the Quigley prize.” Nate, looking more relaxed and happy than she’d ever seen him, was gracious in victory. He would be the real casualty today, she realized suddenly, and wished she could spare him.

  “Yes, and he’s delighted. He agrees that you deserved the gold. Your concerto last night blew us all away.”

  “Thank you.”

  He has a lovely, sweet smile. No wonder his mother loves him.

  His mother bustled up to them. “I told you Nathan was the best.”

  Oh, Cindy, Joan thought, how could you gloat now, of all times? And to me, of all people? I do believe it wouldn’t matter to you if I were Bruce’s own mother.

  They crossed the street together, with Cindy needing no prompting as she chattered on. Joan tried to make her mind fly off somewhere far removed from the white Ford station wagon with Kentucky plates and the Floriana logo on the door. At least the crowd had dissipated; there would be many fewer witnesses than there would have been even a few minutes earlier.

  Cindy was taking her keys out of her handbag when Richards and Richardson came from around the car in opposite directions to stand to her left and right. Fred, with Joan, was standing behind her. They had her boxed in.

  “Cynthia Lloyd?” Richardson said in his quiet voice.

  “Yes?” She looked up, still beaming.

  “You’re under arrest, ma’am.” He plucked the keys from her fingers while Richards cuffed her hands in front of her. “You have the right to remain silent …” He droned on through the Miranda warning.

  Her face, animated only a moment earlier, froze. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  Nate exploded. “You’ve got to be out of your minds! My mother hasn’t done anything wrong. She doesn’t even get parking tickets. This has to be a mistake. Why are you arresting her? What are you charging her with?”

  “The confinement of Camila Pereira, for one, and the murder of Kyle Pruitt, a sergeant in the Oliver Police Department.”

  Now Nate fumed at Fred. “You had something to do with this! My mother’s nev
er even been in Oliver. She couldn’t kill anyone! And she would never harm a violinist. You know how devoted she is to helping me with my career.”

  “Too devoted,” Fred said. “We can prove that she had access to the house where Camila was held and the violin was found, and that she tried and almost succeeded in keeping everyone else out of that house all this week. And we have a witness who saw her car flee the scene after she hit Sergeant Pruitt while she was driving Camila to the house. We even have hard physical evidence that links her car to that accident. No one backed into your mom’s car this week, son. She hit a cop with it, one of my cops, and he didn’t make it. Even Camila remembers that she was driving too fast and hit something, and we have a piece of your mom’s car that was left on the street and paint from the car on the bicycle Sergeant Pruitt was riding. We’ll have to impound the car as evidence, but trust me, there’s no mistake.”

  While Fred spoke, Nate’s eyes widened in horror, and then he shut them tightly. “Mom?” he said, his whole body tensed as if against a blow. All the color had drained out of his face, except for two bright splotches on his cheeks.

  Tears rolled down Cindy’s thin face, but she didn’t attempt to brush them away. “I did it for you, Nathan! I couldn’t let her take the medal away from you. You’re a wonderful violinist, and this is the last year you’d be eligible for it. I did it for you! I had to! Don’t you see?” She held her cuffed hands out to him.

  “I see.” He looked at her now, but his voice sounded dead. “I see that you didn’t trust me to win on my own. I see that you didn’t really believe in me at all. I see that you’ve made a mockery out of this medal.” His face contorted, he pulled it off and threw it on the street. Joan snatched it up just before his foot would have ground it into the pavement.

  “You’re going to need a lawyer,” Fred said. “And if you can’t afford one—”

  “Oh, we can probably afford a lawyer now.” Bitter tears shone in Nate’s eyes. “All that prize money might as well go for lawyers, if they even let me keep it. I’m not going to touch it for myself, and I’m never going to speak to her again.” He turned his back on his mother. “Could someone take me back to the Inmans’?”