The Vanishing Violinist Read online

  The Vanishing Violinist

  A Joan Spencer Mystery

  Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  The Vanishing Violinist

  Copyright © 1999 Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  First published by St. Martin’s Minotaur

  First eBook edition

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  Dedication

  For Charles and Joe

  1

  Waiting for Rebecca seemed like such a simple thing to agree to at the time.

  Joan Spencer hadn’t expected to marry again after Ken died. During the rough years when she was bringing up two children alone, she had occasionally let herself fantasize about a stranger with their father’s slender build, dark curls, and pixie grin. Nothing could have been further from the man of her dreams than the one on her sofa, nibbling her ear after she’d fed him lunch. Yet she felt absolutely right about planning to share the rest of her life with the bulky blond policeman with crinkly eyes.

  “Only don’t rush me, Fred,” she said.

  “Rush you!” Detective Lieutenant Fred Lundquist pulled away and patted her hand the way she occasionally patted the hands of the old ladies at the Oliver Senior Citizens’ Center she directed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now that you mention it, we’d probably better wait a few more years. You’ll need grandchildren first, to throw rose petals.”

  “You!” She punched him lightly on the shoulder. At the moment, she was feeling anything but grandmotherly. Besides, she devoutly hoped grandchildren were a long way off, what with Andrew in his sophomore year at Oliver College and Rebecca still trying her wings in New York City. “But, Fred, I’m serious. We haven’t even talked about the practical things.”

  “Like what?” He moved back to her ear, sending shivers down the back of her neck. She tried to concentrate.

  “Like—like where we’ll live.”

  Fred looked around the living room of the modest house Joan had inherited from her parents, who had once planned to retire to this little southern Indiana college town. Her eyes followed his. Nothing was new, but her books and old furniture welcomed her every time she came home, and the built-in cherry bookshelves glowed.

  “This looks fine to me,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Many a second marriage had foundered on disagreements about territory, she knew. Add those to the problems that happen when two people with long-established domestic habits try to make a go of it, and it’s no wonder, she thought.

  “Why should I mind? You never lived here with Ken. And I’m certainly not attached to my place.”

  That was true, Joan thought. Since his divorce, as long as she had known him, Fred had been more or less camping out in the smallest of apartments, in an area inhabited mainly by Oliver undergraduates who rejected the college dorms.

  “We’ll need a bigger bed.” Ken had been several inches shorter than Fred.

  “Sure!” He nuzzled a spot that made her tremble. “Come on. What else is so important?”

  She knew there had to be lots of things to consider, but she couldn’t think of a single one. Not with him making his way along her body like that.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Just give me time to plan a little. I wouldn’t want an elaborate wedding, but I want to know we’re married.”

  “Trust me, you’ll know.” He sat back, and his eyes crinkled at her. Of all the ways he knew to turn her on, those blue eyes got her every time.

  “Fred, I do love you.”

  “And I love you,” he said, running his fingers through her thick brown hair, long since released from its clasp to fall around her shoulders. “What do you think your kids will say?” he asked. For the first time he sounded hesitant.

  “You think they don’t know already?”

  “Well …”

  Now it was her turn to reassure him. She stroked his high forehead and the beginnings of gray over his temples. “They’ll be all right. You won Rebecca over when she was here, and Andrew always did like you. They’ve probably been making book on how long we’d take to get around to it.”

  “So? How long will we?”

  “I was thinking maybe the end of December. That’s more than enough time to plan a wedding, and Andrew will be on Christmas break. I don’t know about Rebecca … but then, I never know about her. What about your family?” Fred hardly ever talked about them. She knew that he was from a Swedish community even smaller than Oliver, up in northern Illinois, where both his parents still lived.

  “They’re going to love you. My folks are pretty creaky these days, though. Maybe my brother could bring them. Or we could go visit them. It’ll be quiet here, with the college between semesters. I ought to be able to get away then.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “You know what you’re getting into, Joan.” For the first time he sounded serious. “My life isn’t my own, and that’s going to interfere with yours.”

  “I know.” How different could it be, she’d asked herself, from her previous life as a minister’s wife, with unexpected emergencies that had always come during dinner, late at night, or when the children were sick? Plenty, she realized. No one ever shot at the minister. I don’t want to think about that. I know how he felt when I walked into danger last summer. At least I don’t do it for a living.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, as if he could read her mind.

  “Fred, don’t get hurt.”

  “I can’t promise that.” He hugged her gently. “I wish I could.”

  “I know. Be careful, though, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence while it ate at her. Where is my head? she thought suddenly.

  “Fred, I don’t think I could bear it if you got yourself killed while I was waiting for the perfect time. Let’s not wait.”

  “You want to run off this weekend?” he asked. There went the eyes again.

  Did he mean it? “Can we do it that fast?”

  “Today’s Monday. Sure.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. We can celebrate later. And who knows, maybe Rebecca could come anyway.”

  “Go ahead—call her and find out.”

  “At twelve-thirty?” The frugality that had seen her through the rough years was so ingrained in Joan that calling long distance before five in the evening seemed wildly extravagant.

  “I’ll treat. Tell her I’ll even buy her plane ticket.” Now Fred was laughing at her. We haven’t talked about money, either, she thought, but she no longer cared.

  She was reaching for the phone when it startled her by ringing. Probably someone who wouldn’t be able to make Wednesday’s orchestra rehearsal, although they didn’t usually call two whole days in advance and give her a chance to find someone else to cover the key parts. Her second, part-time job, managing the Oliver Civic Symphony, involved reacting to everyone else’s emergencies with a calm she often didn’t feel. She shrugged and picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Rebecca! I was just about to call you.” She smiled at Fred and took his hand.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes.” Joan leaned back against Fred’s warm body and wondered what her daughter would say if she could see them. “What’s up?”

  “Mom, I have wonderfu
l news.” Me, too, Joan thought, but Rebecca didn’t pause. “I’ve been seeing a special guy, and well, Mom, we’re getting married!”

  “Married! Oh, my.” You’re right, she thought. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down.

  “Mom, you’re going to love him, I just know you are.”

  I’m not ready for this. But would I ever be? She’s older than I was when I met her father. “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, his name is Bruce. Bruce Graham. He’s a violinist studying at Juilliard. But he went to Oberlin, first, Mom, just like you.”

  “The college or the con?”

  “The what?”

  “The conservatory of music.” Joan’s own music making was strictly amateur. She had attended the college.

  “The conservatory, of course. He’s a wonderful violinist. You should hear him play, Mom. In fact, you can. He’s about to go to Indiana.”

  “University?” IU had a huge music school in nearby Bloomington, Joan knew, with plenty of graduate students.

  “No, he was accepted into the International Violin Competition of Indianapolis. He’ll be competing against the best in the world. It’s the perfect chance for you to get to know him.”

  “Sounds as if he’ll be pretty busy.” And a little tense? she wondered. Hardly the time to meet your prospective mother-in-law.

  “Well, sure, but they place all the competitors with host families. I figure now that he’s about to become part of our family, you’ll want to host him. I know you’ll just love him. And he won’t be any trouble. He’s great around the house.” Was that the old insecure child Joan was hearing in Rebecca’s adult voice? And did that “great around the house” mean they were already living together? Joan and Fred weren’t. Would Rebecca say she was prudish? Maybe, she thought. Tough. Besides, we’re having enough trouble sorting out our life together without complicating it ahead of time.

  “Sure, we could give Bruce a place to stay,” she told her daughter now. “I’d love to meet him.”

  “It’s more than that, Mom. The host families take them everywhere they have to go. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  Joan’s hand tightened around the phone. Oh, Lord, let me do this right.

  “I’ll be happy to do anything I can, Bec. Is the competition over a weekend?”

  “Oh no, it lasts a couple of weeks. They start out with lots of competitors and narrow the field in stages, until they get to the finals. It takes a long time to go through that much music.”

  “Yes, it would. Rebecca, I wish I could have him here, but I have to work during the week at the senior center and with the orchestra on Wednesday nights. I can’t take off to Indianapolis nearly as often as I suspect he’ll need to be there.” Joan held her breath, but to her surprise, Rebecca reacted cheerfully.

  “That’s what Bruce said.”

  “He what?”

  “He said no one with a job could do what they ask host families to do. He was amazed anyone was willing to do all that stuff.”

  “I like him already.” Joan grinned into the phone. “Look, Bec, even if I can’t host him, I ought to be able to go up and hear him play. And if he can spare the time, maybe we could get together for a meal or something while he’s out here. Andrew will want to meet him, too, you know.”

  “Oh, Mom, isn’t it absolutely wonderful?” Rebecca’s joy flowed through the wires.

  “Yes, dear, it is. I’m so happy for you. When is all this happening?” And do you plan to include your family? she didn’t ask. After a couple of years of keeping them at more than arm’s length after she took off to be on her own, Rebecca had thawed when she’d brought her risqué sleeping bag to enter in Oliver’s big quilt show. Since then Joan had had her daughter’s phone number. Still, she didn’t take anything about Rebecca for granted.

  “The wedding? I don’t know. He leaves here Friday, and the competition starts next week. After that’s over, we can think about wedding plans. We don’t want to wait, that’s for sure. Bruce doesn’t believe in long engagements. I just wish I had someone to give me away. Andrew’s younger than I am, and Grandpa Spencer’s much too old. I suppose I could ask Uncle Dave.” She sounded dubious, as well she might. Joan hadn’t seen her brother for years. Childless himself, Dave had never showed any interest in his only niece and nephew, much less affection. She doubted that he would even accept an invitation to see her marry Fred.

  “How would you feel about asking Fred?” Joan took his hand and smiled up at him.

  “Fred?” Rebecca sounded puzzled. “I like him. But he’s not in the family. If it can’t be Dad, it should at least be someone in the family.”

  Here we go, Joan thought. She smiled at Fred and plunged in.

  “That’s what I was about to call you about—I have some news of my own. Fred and I are planning to be married this coming weekend. I was hoping you might be able to be with us.” She held her breath again. Prickly Rebecca—so much her father’s daughter—could she possibly accept Fred?

  “Mom, that’s great!”

  Whew.

  “What does Andrew say about it?”

  “He’s in class. We’ll tell him when he comes home.”

  “You mean you told me first? Gosh, Mom.” Rebecca sounded genuinely touched.

  “Do you think you can come?”

  “I don’t know how. I’ve been trading hours with one of the girls at the bank for things not half so important. I’m so far in the hole now that the dragon who schedules us told me I’d lose my job if I did it again in the next month. I can’t even come out to hear Bruce play. I’m sorry, Mom. Couldn’t you wait until I can be there?”

  “We were going to, but then we just couldn’t.”

  “You’re not …” Rebecca’s voice trailed off.

  “Not what?”

  “You know.”

  Rebecca, shy? Joan laughed out loud.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rebecca, I’m not ‘you know.’ ” Fred was grinning broadly. Another thing they hadn’t gotten around to discussing—what if he wanted a family of his own? Could she face starting over again? “We’re just ready.”

  “I wish I could come. Couldn’t you wait just a little while, till I can?” It wasn’t a whine; more a plea.

  Joan didn’t want to start justifying herself to her daughter. Hadn’t they gone past that stage on Rebecca’s last visit? She didn’t want to make her anxious about Fred, either. Bad enough that I am, she thought.

  “Don’t worry about it, Rebecca. Fred’s family probably won’t be there either.”

  “I didn’t know Fred had kids.”

  “He doesn’t, just a brother, a sister, and his parents. Andrew will have to represent you all. We’ll celebrate with you whenever you get here. At least you know Fred—I haven’t even met his folks yet. We may go up to see them at Christmas.”

  “Well, you’ll meet Bruce long before that. And, Mom, tell Fred I’d be honored to have him give me away when the time comes. Wait till I tell Bruce he’s going to have a cop for a father-in-law.” Rebecca’s laugh burbled forth.

  This from the girl who for years had looked daggers at any man who paid attention to her mother. Again, Joan let out breath she hadn’t known she was holding. When she hung up, she filled Fred in on the parts he’d missed.

  “Fred, she sounds so genuinely happy that it’s spilling over onto us. I think this young man may be good for her.”

  “Sounds like it. Bend a little, Joan. We don’t have to rush. I’ll be careful around the bad guys, and you’re not ‘you know.’ ” He grinned.

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “Call her back and say we’ll wait.”

  2

  The call the next Saturday wasn’t from Rebecca, but from a woman whose voice Joan didn’t recognize.

  “Mrs. Spencer?”

  “Yes,” she said into the telephone. For a while yet, anyhow. That’s another thing we haven’t discussed—names. She looked over at Fred, standing in the sunny
front bedroom she had chosen as her own because she loved it, even if she did have to go upstairs to shower. At the moment he was hanging up his winter clothes in what soon would be his closet. Thank goodness they weren’t going to have to share one. Her little house was short on some kinds of space, but rich in closets.

  “This is Polly Osborne. You won’t know me, but my husband and I are hosting one of the violinists at the Indianapolis violin competition, and he’s asked us to invite you to the picnic we’re giving this evening with a couple of the other host families.” Polly talked fast, but her voice was warm enough.

  “You mean Bruce?” What was Bruce’s last name? Would it be Rebecca’s?

  “Bruce Graham, yes. I understand he’s engaged to your daughter?” A half-question.

  “That’s what she tells me. This is all a little sudden.”

  “I would have asked you sooner, but I didn’t know until he mentioned it today.”

  That’s not what I meant, Joan thought, but she didn’t quite know how to say so. Polly Osborne didn’t pause.

  “I hope you can join us anyway. It will be very informal. Just a little get-together before the competition actually begins. The violinists are all so tense, but they have to eat, don’t they? And of course your son and Mr. Spencer are invited too.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my son will want to meet Bruce. But his father died some years ago. I could bring my fiancé, Fred Lundquist.” It felt strange, but good, to say it out loud.

  “Of course. We’ll be glad to have him.”

  “Just let me ask him. Picnic up in Indy tonight, to meet Rebecca’s Bruce?”

  Fred nodded, pointed to his watch, and raised his eyebrows.

  “We’d love to come,” Joan said. “It’s past noon now. What time did you have in mind?”

  “We’ll be gathering between four and five. But it’s very informal—you come whenever you can make it. Our next-door neighbors, Harry and Violet Schmalz, are hosting another violinist, so we’re getting together at their house.” She gave Joan an address in Indianapolis, and directions.