Point Blank (23 page)

“I’ve got to say it out loud,” Dix said. “Helen might have called Gordon to warn him about what she told us.”

Savich said, “And maybe about what she didn’t tell you. It’s certainly possible. And it’s certainly true both of them—Erin and Helen—had been intimate with Dr. Holcombe. I’d say that puts him squarely at the top of our list.”

“If he’s not at Stanislaus this morning, we’ll have to find him and bring him in,” Dix said. “Now we can’t break Helen’s alibi for him on Friday.”

He saw Sherlock speaking with Dr. Himple. She nodded, shook his hand, and walked over to them. “

The doctor says she was strangled. There are no defensive wounds because whoever killed her probably crept up on her while she was asleep, garroted her, and it was over quickly. I’ll bet she called Dr. Holcombe, Dix. Out of love or loyalty?”

Savich nodded. “That’s what we were saying. We need to trace her movements, Dix, after you left her yesterday. You got a couple of good people to put on this?”

Dix nodded. “When we saw her at Stanislaus, Uncle Gordon wasn’t there, as I told you. He was over in Gainsborough Hall, the big performing auditorium, listening to some pieces to be played at the concert next month. We’ll find out who saw her before she left the campus. We can check her phone records—

maybe she called him at the auditorium.”

Ruth said, “Maybe Helen called someone else, maybe she couldn’t remember all the names and she knew of someone else who knew, or she called one of the women.”

Dix pulled out his cell and punched in his office. He said to his dispatcher, “Amalee, get Penny, Emory, and Claus in. I’ll meet them at the office in twenty minutes.” He paused for a moment, listening, then flipped his phone shut, and pocketed it. “Amalee already knew,” he said. He shook his head. “Of course she knew.” He scuffed the toe of his boot against the living room rug and cursed under his breath. They searched Helen Rafferty’s small three-bedroom house thoroughly. There wasn’t much to see because she’d simplified her life some time ago, according to her brother, preferring to have few possessions. But she loved photos. They were everywhere, on every surface. Mostly family. They did find some five-year-old notes Dr. Holcombe had written to her in a little box with a ribbon tied around it in her underwear drawer. Not hot and heavy love notes, but things like Dinner tonight, at your place? or Meet me at my house at six o’clock.

It was all incredibly sad, Ruth thought.

Helen Rafferty’s empty desk at Stanislaus was pristine, not a loose paper anywhere. Her computer screen looked polished. Since Dr. Holcombe wasn’t there, they took the time to go through all her desk drawers, but found nothing of interest. Soon everyone on campus would want to know what had happened. Everyone would be upset and confused—first Erin Bushnell, now the director’s personal assistant. Soon, Dix thought, everyone would be scared.

Dix was starting up the Range Rover when his cell phone rang. He hung up a moment later. “That was Chappy. He said Twister is at Tara, drinking his Kona coffee, eating Mrs. Goss’s scones, and is of no use to anyone at all. He said Twister told him about Helen being strangled, and now Twister is crying and sniffling. Chappy sounded disgusted.”

The sun wasn’t shining. The sky was steel-gray, heavy snow-bloated clouds dotting the horizon, and it seemed as cold as the South Dakota plains Dix had visited years ago with Christie and the boys. Dix kept to the back roads and pushed the Range Rover well beyond the speed limit. Seeing Ruth hug herself, he turned the heat on high. “Snow,” he said to no one in particular. “Probably by afternoon.”

They pulled into Tara’s long drive twelve minutes later. “I wonder where my law enforcement officers are,” Dix said. “I was over the limit the whole way. Usually if there’s someone speeding, they know it.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Ruth told him. “They gonna pull you over? I don’t think so. When was the last time one of your deputies came after you for speeding?”

“Point made.”

As Dix pulled the Range Rover to a stop, he said, “If you guys will bear with me, I want to hold off asking my uncle about his affairs with Erin and the others in front of Chappy. He’d probably howl with laughter, say he thought Twister was impotent or something, and go on forever. We really can’t interrogate him here. I want to confront him about Erin and Helen when he’s away from his brother.”

“He’s your uncle, and it’s your investigation, Dix,” Savich said. “Your call.”

Chappy answered the doorbell again, wearing a pale blue cashmere sweater, black wool slacks, and loafers.

“Is Bertram still sick?” Dix asked him.

“Yeah, he’s still sniffling around her house, his sister told me, complaining he hurts all over when he gets out of bed. Not a good patient, is Bertram. It’s about time you got here, Dix. I know Twister killed Helen. Come in and handcuff this pathetic wuss, get him out of here, he’s making me sick. I see you’re still towing the Feds around.” He stepped back, waved them all in.

Gordon Holcombe was standing by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked like an Italian fashion plate in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a perfectly knotted pale blue tie. He looked sad and also somehow stoic, a strange combination, Ruth thought. Was he really sorry Helen was dead? Or relieved?

Gordon didn’t say a word when they walked into the living room, and merely stood watching them. Dix said, “Gordon, I’m very sorry about Helen.”

“Why are you telling him you’re sorry?” Chappy bellowed, waving his fist in his brother’s direction. “This mewling little psychopath probably killed her. I already told you he did. Go on. Ask him!”

Ruth asked, “Did you kill Helen Rafferty, Dr. Holcombe?”

Gordon sighed, set his coffee cup on the mantel. “No, Agent Warnecki, I most certainly did not. I was very fond of Helen. I’ve known her since I first came to Stanislaus. She was a remarkable woman. I don’

t know who killed her.” Suddenly, he looked spiteful. “Why don’t you ask Chappy while you’re at it? He

’s the loose cannon around here. How do you think he got so rich? He’s stepped over some bodies. Ask him!”

“Ha! That was weak, Twister, real weak. As if I’d kill your former mistress. The good Lord knows you’

re the only one with a motive, not me. Er, what was your motive?”

Dix said, “How did you know she was dead, Gordon?”

“I called Helen because I wanted to ask her about some details concerning Erin Bushnell’s memorial service. I got her answering machine, and I thought that was strange because everyone knows Helen is always at her desk by seven-thirty, so I called the reception desk in Blankenship and asked to speak to her. Mary said she hadn’t seen her. When I called her home, her brother answered. He was crying, poor man. He told me she was dead, that she’d been murdered, said you guys had just left.

“I was upset, bewildered. I didn’t know what to do so I came here.” He shot his brother a vicious look.

“Am I an idiot or what? No sympathy from Charles Manson here, the cold-blooded old bloodsucker.”

Savich stepped right in. “When did you last see Helen, Dr. Holcombe?”

“Yesterday afternoon, for only a moment after I got back from Gainsborough Hall. I was upset because they’d had to replace Erin with another student who simply isn’t in her league. Usually Helen would stay if I did, but this time she didn’t. She left, barely spoke to me at all. Naturally, I thought she was troubled over Erin’s murder.

“I remember watching her walk to where her Toyota was parked, thinking she’d gained a little weight. I watched her get in and drive away.” His voice broke. “I never saw her again.”

Chappy made a rude noise. “That was real affecting, Twister, gloomed my innards right up.”

Mercifully, Mrs. Goss appeared in the doorway carrying a large silver tray. Sherlock found herself staring at the lovely Georgian silver service, so highly polished she could see her face in the surface. When Mrs. Goss left, she turned to Chappy, who looked as satisfied as could be, sprawled in his chair, his long legs crossed. “Why did you say your brother was crying, Mr. Holcombe? I don’t see a single tearstain.”

Chappy only shrugged. “Because he was crying before you showed up, croc tears. Twister never cries about anything in his useless life unless it’s over something he wanted and didn’t get.”

“Well, I didn’t want Helen dead,” Gordon said, his voice flat and too calm. “And well you know it, Chappy. You’re trying to cause trouble for me, nothing new in that, but this isn’t a joke. You little sadist, Helen’s dead, Erin’s dead. Even Walt’s dead. Someone tried to kill Special Agent Warnecki. Don’t you understand, you old geezer—everything’s gone to hell!” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting. Chappy merely grinned at him.

Ruth asked, “Dr. Holcombe, where were you last Friday afternoon?”

“What? What is this? Erin—You think I had something to do with her murder, too? God almighty, this can’t be happening.”

“What were you doing Friday afternoon?” Savich repeated.

Gordon waved his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—Wait, wait. I was stuck counseling a procession of idiot students all afternoon. They were driving me wild.”

Gordon turned on Dix. “I didn’t kill anyone! You’re the bloody sheriff. Who is going to be next? What are you doing to catch the monster who’s doing these things? I’ll tell you, it’s someone who hates me, who wants to destroy me and Stanislaus.”

Ruth asked, “Did Helen call you last night, Dr. Holcombe?”

“Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”

“Why did you think to call her?”

Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”

Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”

“Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”

“How about Tommy Dempsey?”

“No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”

“They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”

“Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar…”

“Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”

“Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”

Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”

Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”

“Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”

“The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”

Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”

Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”

“Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”

“Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.

“No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”

Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again. Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’

d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”

“Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.

Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”

“Even though I’ve had to put up with this overbearing jackass all my life, the fact is, I like his coffee.” He saluted his brother with his coffee cup.

CHAPTER 23

MARIAN GILLESPIE DIDN’T answer the knock on her door, a young man did. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with STANISLAUS across the front.

“Yeah? Who are you?”

Dix smiled as he stepped forward, pushing him back into the house. “I’m Sheriff Noble. Who are you?”