Authors: Catherine Coulter
“Hey—”
“Who are you?”
“Sam Moraga.”
“This is Professor Marian Gillespie’s house. What are you doing here?”
“Marian is giving me private tutoring,” the young man said, and yawned so wide his jaw cracked.
“In what?”
“I play the clarinet, among other instruments. I had to come over late last night because Dr. Holcombe—
he’s her father—was here and she couldn’t get rid of him before nine o’clock.”
“You saw Dr. Holcombe leave?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He drives this stuck-up silver Mercedes, thinks he’s better than all the peasants. Thing is, though, he’s got the talent to pull it off.”
“Where is Dr. Gillespie?” Dix asked him.
“She left a little while ago, said she had to e-mail this composer who sent her some clarinet music. She thought it was great. She’s at her office at school.”
Dix continued, “You must be the only sentient human being in the area who doesn’t know. Helen Rafferty was murdered last night.”
Sam Moraga nearly fell over. Dix grabbed his arm. “You knew her, I gather.”
“Oh man, sure I knew Ms. Rafferty. Man, everyone is dying. I can’t believe this. She was nice, wouldn’t hurt anyone, always great with Marian’s dad—Murdered? She was like a mother to Marian, to all the students. Who killed her?”
“We’re working on it,” Dix said. “I gather you and Dr. Gillespie are sleeping together?”
Sam Moraga nodded absently. “Helen is dead. I can’t get my brain around that. It’s horrible. First Erin, and now Helen. What’s happening, Sheriff?”
“Come into the living room.”
They spoke with Sam Moraga for another thirty minutes. He was nervous about the FBI agents, stammering the answers to their questions. Sherlock thought he might be spooked about having some marijuana in the house. They left him at the kitchen table, a mug of cold coffee between his beautifully shaped hands.
Dix and Ruth walked toward the Range Rover ahead of Savich and Sherlock, who’d slowed to confer.
“Sam was frightened about you Feds, and he probably thought I was a joke,” Dix said. “You guys got to see me bumbling around.”
“Dix, you realized as well as I did that Sam’s not a player in this. Whoever’s doing this is smart, and so far he’s playing us like a pro.”
He called out to Savich and Sherlock, “Let’s go track down Dr. Gillespie.” Suddenly he smiled at Ruth. “
Hey, wanna go skating when this is over? Honeyluck Pond’s been frozen for the past two weeks.”
“Skating? Well, sure, I’d like that. I haven’t skated in years but I used to be pretty good.”
They ran Marian Gillespie to earth in the faculty lounge on the second floor of Blankenship Hall. She was alone in the plush, dark wood–paneled room, sipping from a mug as she stood at one of the multipaned windows, staring at the snow-covered hills in the distance. It was easy for Ruth to see she was her father’
s daughter and Chappy’s niece. She was tall, slender, dressed in a beautifully cut dark blue suit, stiletto boots on her long, narrow feet. She had thick, light hair and dark eyes, like Tony’s.
“Marian,” Dix said to her from the doorway.
Her head came up fast, a long hank of hair falling forward. “Dix! Oh goodness, you’re here about Helen, aren’t you? Oh God, what’s happening?” She set her mug on a table and ran to him, threw her arms around him. “I simply can’t believe it; no one would want to hurt Helen. She was almost like a mother to me, always so sweet, listened to all my troubles. She wrote me when I was at Juilliard, did you know that?”
“Yes, Christie told me how close you two were. We need to talk, Marian.” Dix introduced the three FBI agents.
She motioned them to join her. Once seated, Marian said, “I heard about those men trying to kill you, Agent Warnecki. Then there was poor Erin Bushnell and poor old Walt McGuffey. Now Helen. Who’s responsible, Dix? Who is killing our friends, ruining everything we’ve worked for?”
“We’re close to finding that out, Marian, but we need your help.”
Savich said, “We spoke with Sam Moraga at your house earlier.”
She didn’t look embarrassed, not even much interested, only shrugged. “Well, Sam’s a talented boy who has a brilliant future, if he can keep himself focused on what’s important. We’ll see. He learns quickly, I’ll say that for him. And he’s eager.”
No one was about to touch that morass of double entendres, and Savich wondered if she knew about her father’s affairs with students. Was she throwing this back at him?
Sherlock said, “We’re very sorry about this, Professor Gillespie. We spoke to your father as well. He was over at Tara with Chappy.”
“So my father knew and didn’t bother to call me. That’s par for the course. I’m not surprised he was with Uncle Chappy. I’ll bet they were fighting, right?”
Sherlock said, “It seems to be the only way they communicate.”
She shrugged again. “It’s been that way forever. I never pay attention to their dramatics anymore. Sometimes the yelling breaks through, but usually not.”
Savich brought her attention back to him. “Dr. Gillespie, did you know that your father and Helen Rafferty were lovers at one time?”
“Sure, she told me. It was no big secret. I would have thought you knew, Dix. I’m sure Christie did. Now, you’re not thinking Dad had anything to do with this, are you?”
Dix held silent, continued to look at her.
Marian flipped her hand. “Listen, that’s nuts. Dad needed Helen, probably more than any other human being in the world. He didn’t love her, like sexually, but he needed her. She used to play the piano while I played my clarinet. She never tried to drown me out like some pianists do, she—”
Dix patted her hand. “I know it’s hard, but let’s try to stay on track, okay? Please tell me what you know about it.”
“All right, all right. Dad and Helen. When Dad broke it off, Helen nearly went round the bend. I was really mad at him. I called him on it, told him she was already like a mother to me so why didn’t he just make it official? I told him he was being cruel to her, and selfish.” She sucked in a big breath, gathered her control together. “Do you know what he did? He laughed, actually laughed. He was tired of her as a lover, told me her talents were in administration, not in bed. When I asked him what his point was since he wasn’t such a young rooster anymore himself, he walked out of the room. Later, after I apologized—
yeah, I know, still trying to please Daddy—well, he told me she was too clingy, and just plain too ordinary, that was the word he used.
“I tried to help Helen get through it, I really did, but you know what? Whenever I told her what I thought of his behavior, she defended him. Can you believe that? She actually defended him!”
No one said a word. Marian drew a deep breath. “She left her job for about six months, but didn’t tell anyone at Stanislaus why. I thought, good, Helen’s ready to move on, ready to leave my father behind her, but you know what happened? He got to her, convinced her to come back as his personal assistant. I would have fed him his balls, but Helen bowed her head, let him walk all over her, and went back.”
Marian shook her head and drank more tea. “She told me she still loved and admired him, that his genius set him apart, made up for everything else, and he still needed her. Can you believe that?” She paused and looked at each of them. “You want to know what the sad thing is? I’m thirty-eight years old and even I still want him to notice me, tell me he admires me, tell me how talented I am. Am I pathetic, or what?”
Ruth looked puzzled. “It is a little hard to understand. Why, if you feel as you do about him, do you want to work for your father, and continue to live in the same small town?”
Professor Marian Gillespie didn’t act defensive. What she did was give them all a big smile. “I told you, Agent Warnecki, I’m pathetic. To balance it all out, there’s a love pool of nice young men here.”
“What became of your mother, Professor?” Sherlock asked, steering the subject back.
“Please, call me Marian.”
Sherlock nodded.
“My mother? Oh, Dad divorced her when I was a baby. After that, she left and I never heard from her again. From then on it was only Dad and me.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Dix asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Uncle Chappy knows, but I wouldn’t count on him to tell you anything close to the truth. All I remember is Uncle Chappy didn’t like my mother. I guess my dad didn’t either, since he divorced her.”
Savich said abruptly, “Did you know your father was sleeping with Erin Bushnell?”
She was shocked and clearly appalled. She was either a remarkable actress or this really was news to her. “That’s a stupid lie.” She jumped to her feet, her palms flat on the table. “Why would you say such a thing? It’s ridiculous. Sure he slept with Helen, but she was closer to his age. A student? Erin Bushnell?
No way.”
Savich said, “It’s true, Marian. Ginger Stanford knew about it, and so did Helen Rafferty.”
“Helen told you that? Are you sure, Dix? Erin was much younger than I am, for goodness sake. She’s Sam’s age. No, I can’t accept that, I simply can’t.”
“You’re going to have to accept it,” Dix said. “Helen told us everything. What I find interesting is that you knew all about your father’s affair with Helen Rafferty, but you didn’t know about Erin Bushnell.”
Marian slowly shook her head. “Not a clue. On the other hand, I doubt my dad knows about Sam Moraga. But for heaven’s sake, he’s my father!”
Dix said, “Sam Moraga was really upset about Helen’s murder, more so than I thought a student would be about the death of an administrative assistant. Why?”
She shrugged. “Maybe he thought of her as his mother, too, I don’t know. We never spoke about her. Actually, it was Helen who introduced Sam to me. He was in one of my music theory classes, but I hadn’
t really paid much attention to him. Then at one of those interminable professor and student get-togethers my father insists on throwing every couple of months, she introduced us.”
“Does anyone know about Sam?”
She shook her head at Dix, worried at a fingernail. “We’re discreet.” She finished her tea. “If Sam hadn’t been at my house, you wouldn’t have known I was anything but the celibate everyone believes me to be. There were a couple of others before Sam, both of them out in the world now. My father called me a shriveled-up prude last year. I remember I’d gotten only two hours’ sleep the night before, so I simply laughed at him. He couldn’t understand that laugh and I didn’t enlighten him.” Her voice turned bitter and low. “Maybe I should have told him. It looks like we could have compared notes. We make quite a pair, don’t we?”
Dix saw the tears in her eyes, and waited for her to recover. He’d known her since he and Christie got married, and yet…He shook his head. Who ever really knew what another person was about?
Marian looked at the rest of them, her lips twisted at their carefully expressionless faces. “Were there others? Others besides Erin Bushnell?”
Dix said, “You need to talk to your father about that, Marian. We’re going over to see him now. If you think of anything else, give me a call right away. I’ve got the same cell number.”
“Is there some sort of serial killer on the loose here, Dix?”
“What we’re thinking is that whoever tried to kill Ruth probably killed Erin Bushnell, and that opened Pandora’s box. He may be trying to do damage control.”
“But why Helen? Does that make any sense to you?”
Dix said, “Tying it together will be the key to all of this.”
Marian walked to the window, turned, and looked back at them. “So much pain to bear now. I suppose I’ll have to deal with Sam’s pain, too. How can he possibly have loved her as much as I did? I wonder, Dix. Do you think my father cared at all?”
“Yes, Marian. I think he did.”
CHAPTER 24
DIX CALLED THE deputy assigned to follow Gordon Holcombe when he left Tara.
“Where is he, B.B.?”
“Weirdest thing, Sheriff. When Dr. Holcombe left Tara, I thought he was going to Stanislaus, then he seemed to change his mind. He drove straight out to the Coon Hollow Bar. He’s been in there nearly two hours. You told me I shouldn’t try to keep out of sight and I didn’t. He knew I was following him, and it didn’t seem to bother him. Right now I’m tucked in a mess of pine trees across the street.”
Dix told him to stay put, they’d be there shortly. He punched off his cell. “Gordon calls this place his sanctuary. It’s a pre–World War Two relic, all weathered wood, dark glass in the windows, and a rutted parking lot in front.”
Coon Hollow Bar was only a mile or so out of Maestro.
“It looks like a treat,” Sherlock said, admiring the old dark charm of the place. “A good number of customers,” she added, waving at four other cars in the parking lot. There was no sunlight inside Coon Hollow. It smelled of beer and salty pretzels and cigarettes. There was one glowing sign for Bud Light above the bathroom door on the far wall. Gordon Holcombe was bellied up at the bar, head down, shoulders hunched. There were maybe six other folks at the bar, either talking in low voices or as silent as Gordon.
Gordon glanced up when the front door opened and sunlight poured in. He watched the four of them approach. Fact is, Ruth thought, he didn’t look the least bit interested in anything except the drink he was sloshing around in his glass.
“Gordon,” Dix said.
Gordon glanced at Dix briefly before looking back down. “Since you’re all cops, I doubt you know what this is.” He held up the glass, swirled the scotch around. “This is The Macallan, Highland scotch whiskey, eighteen years old. It’s considered the Rolls-Royce of single malts. Our barkeep’s father orders it special for me. My last bottle is low so I can’t offer you any. Dix, if you find out who murdered Helen, I’ll buy you a bottle of The Macallan for Christmas. Any of you want a beer?”
“No, Gordon.”
“Then perhaps, Dix, you can tell me why you’ve got B.B. following me? He’s sitting in his cruiser right across the street. Afraid I was going to take off since I’m so damned guilty?”
Dix said, “Tell us what Helen said to you when she called you last night.”
“Helen called me often.”