The FBI Thrillers Collection (148 page)

Sherlock was excited. “How lovely of that mad old man to tell you about her. We could be there tomorrow.”

He nodded slowly, rose and stretched.

“Hey, sailor, you wanna dance?”

He laughed, pulled her to him, and hugged her hard. He said against her ear, “We can be back in Maestro by tomorrow evening. Maybe we’ll want to dance again.”

“What if Moses and Claudia do—”

“It’s okay. If they act, we’ll deal with it. I’ll be surprised if they don’t do something. Old Moses called me to brag, and he needs something new to brag about. He’s not well, Sherlock. I’m thinking this may be his last hurrah.”

 

“HOLD UP A minute, Ruth,” Dix said. He and Ruth waited by the Range Rover for Tony Holcombe to cross Main Street. He was focused on Dix, looking straight ahead ignoring the slushy ground, nearly sending an old Ford Fairlane skidding into a parking meter to avoid hitting him.

Ruth watched the beautifully dressed man hurrying toward them. He was tall and fit, probably in his early forties. He looked like a fashion plate out of
GQ
, his thick light brown hair beautifully styled, shining in the morning sun.

“Hey, Tony,” Dix called out. “What’s up?”

Tony Holcombe came to a stop not a foot from Dix’s face. “I—I heard about Erin—that is, Dad told me what happened. I can’t believe it, Dix. Erin was the sweetest girl, never did anything to anybody, only wanted to play her violin, there was nothing else in the world for her but her music.”

Ruth came around the Range Roger and nodded to the man bundled up in the thousand-dollar black leather coat and soft leather gloves.

Tony Holcombe turned his large dark eyes to her face. “You’re the woman Brewster found in Dix’s shed, aren’t you? Are you still staying at Dix’s house? I was wondering how it might look if my sister—”

“That’s enough, Tony.”

“Sorry. Yes, all right. Dix, do you know anything about who killed Erin?”

Dix said, “Why don’t you come into my office, I’d like to warm up a bit.”

Tony had the Holcombe body—long bones, no extra flesh, a strong jawline. His dark eyes were a dramatic contrast to his light hair. He looked remarkably like Chappy, his father, but wasn’t as graceful as he, a man as lithe as a dancer despite his age. Tony walked awkwardly, his arms moving in a different rhythm from his legs. It was curiously charming.

In the sheriff’s office, Dix spoke to half a dozen people before he opened his office door and ushered the two of them inside.

“Now, let’s get official here. Ruth, this is my brother-in-law, Tony Holcombe, Chappy’s son. He runs the local Holcombe bank. Tony, this is Ruth Warnecki, FBI.”

They shook hands. Tony had a nice firm grip along with his well-manicured nails, and his beautiful eyes met hers directly. She wondered if his sister’s eyes were that color, her coloring that dramatic. She hadn’t been able to tell from the photo on Dix’s desk.

“Call me Tony, please. Why are you still here in Maestro?”

“I’m here to find out who tried to kill me. It appears that the same person also killed Erin Bushnell.”

His face tightened. “I can’t believe she’s dead. My dad told me and my wife, Cynthia. She’s really upset. She and Erin were like sisters.”

This was odd, Dix thought. To the best of his knowledge Cynthia Holcombe had never liked anyone of her own sex, beginning with her own mother and two sisters, whom he’d heard Cynthia refer to as the old bitch and her two whining whelps. Her dislike had extended to her sister-in-law Christie, whom she’d called a gun-toting right-wing red-neck. Christie a redneck—it still boggled his mind. As for what Cynthia thought of him, he wasn’t about to go there. She was like a sister to Erin Bushnell?

“How is Cynthia?” Dix asked, holding out a mug of black coffee with two sugar cubes to his brother-in-law, and waiting for him to pull off his gloves.

“Distraught, as I said. She wanted me to find out what you’re doing, what you know. I heard you found her in Winkel’s Cave. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“Yes, Tony, we found her in Winkel’s Cave, where her killer left her. How did Cynthia meet Erin Bushnell?”

“At a concert at Stanislaus last year, but that’s not important now. Dix, if you hadn’t gone to Winkel’s Cave, if my father hadn’t shown you that back entrance, no one would ever have known she was dead.”

“Very true.”

“She would have simply disappeared, like Christie.”

Dix’s face was impassive. He nodded.

Tony turned to Ruth, who was sipping her own coffee. She’d laced it liberally with cream, realizing quickly if she didn’t, it would clot blood. “I heard you were hunting some kind of treasure, that you found a cave chamber no one knew was there.”

“That’s right,” Ruth said. So bits and pieces had gotten out, which wasn’t too bad as long as it didn’t go any further.

Chappy had given Tony a few facts, Dix thought, but not everything, thank the good Lord. Chappy never could keep his mouth shut, except when it came to money. He could tell Ruth was assessing Tony, like a cop would a suspect in a crime. He watched her push her hair behind her ear, a habit of hers. It took only a moment for her hair to swing back again. Thick, dark hair, with a bit of a curl to it. Dix watched Tony focus all of his bred-to-the-bone intensity on Ruth, then he eyed both of them in frustration. “Dad asked me to drop by and invite the two of you over to lunch, said you wouldn’t be available for dinner because the other two FBI agents are coming back this evening.”

“How does your father know that?” Ruth asked. Without thinking, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered.

“Dad spoke to Rafer this morning, caught him as he was going to school. Told him Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock were going to fly in a special FBI Bell helicopter up to Philadelphia on a case. He didn’t know what it was, but he said they would be back for dinner tonight.”

Dix grunted. He’d have to speak to both his boys. He wondered if either of them could even spell “discretion.” He’d give them the loose lips talk.

“Why did they take off for Philadelphia all of a sudden?”

“That’s an FBI matter, Tony,” Ruth said. “I’d like to have lunch with your dad. Will you and your wife be there as well? She could tell me all about Erin Bushnell and their sisterhood.”

Tony Holcombe’s eyes darkened, suspecting sarcasm, but not hearing any he finally nodded and set his mug on Dix’s desk. “I must get to the bank now.” He pulled on his black leather gloves.

“How’s the banking business, Tony?”

Tony Holcombe shrugged as he opened the office door. “Things are going quite well, but you know Dad—he’ll never admit it, says everything’s been going to hell in a handbasket since I’ve been running things.”

They heard him greet some of the deputies on his way out.

“He seems quite likable,” Ruth said. “I’d sure hate to be in his shoes.”

Dix said, “Tony’s always had to walk in Chappy’s long shadow. If I’d been born in Tony’s shoes, I’d have left the state a long time ago, made my own way as far from Chappy as I could get. Now, I want to head over and meet with Ginger Stanford, Gloria’s daughter, see what she has to say about Erin Bushnell. So far, Erin is a beloved, talented sister to my sister-in-law Cynthia, and believe me, that’s both scary and unbelievable.”

Ginger Stanford owned a four-story red brick Georgian sandwiched between Angelo’s Pizza and Classic Threads. On their short walk there, everyone seemed to want to speak to the sheriff and to inspect Ruth, as if an FBI agent had an extra arm or two heads and needed a closer look. Dix was patient but tight-lipped, doing a much better job than his sons of keeping quiet about their business.

Ginger’s secretary was an ancient old man who was hunkered down behind a huge mahogany desk. A wooden name plaque set in the center of the desk read HENRY O.

“Sheriff,” the old man croaked, nodded to Ruth, and looked back at his computer screen. “I got me a real puzzle here,” he said. “Five words and each word contains three different words. You know, like ‘splice.’ ”

“I don’t think ‘plice’ is a word, Henry. We’re here to see Ginger. Buzz her, please.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. Drat. Ms. Ginger’s writing up old Mr. Curmudgeon’s will.”

“I’ve never actually heard of anyone named Curmudgeon,” Ruth said.

Henry O rose slowly. He was wearing a starched white shirt and natty black pants belted up near his chest. “That’s just what I call him, miss. It’s Amos McQueen, older even than me. I can’t believe he’s still breathing. Shoulda croaked in 1971 when his hay baler rolled over on him, but he walked away from it. Durnedest thing.” Henry tottered toward a closed door and knocked. Ruth saw he was wearing new Ferragamos on his small, narrow feet.

“Come.”

Henry opened the door, stuck his head in. “Ms. Ginger, the cops are here, acting all friendly so’s I’ll cooperate.”

They heard a woman’s laugh. “Show them in, Henry, show them in. I’ll cooperate, too.”

Ruth stopped cold at the sight of Ginger Stanford. She was a stunning woman, there no other word for her, her cheekbones high and sharp, her natural blond hair coiled at the back of her head. When she rose, Ruth thought she must be near six feet tall, with long legs that looked like they ended at her earlobes. She gave Dix a lovely big smile as she walked around her desk, her hand extended. Ruth didn’t miss the look in Ginger’s eyes. She really liked the sheriff.

They exchanged pleasantries. When Dix introduced her to Ruth, Ruth was aware of her quick, assessing glance, a look every woman recognizes when she’s seen as a possible poacher.

Ruth said, “I’m an FBI agent, Ms. Stanford.”

“Yes, so I heard. I don’t see any sign of a head wound.”

Ruth automatically touched her fingertips to the small Band-Aid hidden beneath her hair. “Nearly gone now,” she said.

Dix shook his head. “Everyone in this town hears everything.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ginger said and waved an elegant hand toward the sofa. “I heard Brewster found you behind the woodpile at the side of Dix’s house.”

Once seated again behind her desk, Ginger steepled her fingers in front of her and said thoughtfully, “Mother is miserable about Erin, Dix. I spent last night with her, she was so upset. She couldn’t stop crying. Please tell me you’ve discovered who’s responsible. And now Walt McGuffey. What’s going on here, Dix?”

He shrugged. “I’d really like you to tell us about Erin Bushnell, Ginger.”

Ginger sat back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment, snapped them open, and blinked as her mouth formed a slow smile. Ruth wondered how that series of attention-getters played with a jury. Probably drove the guys wild. She finally said, “Other than the fact that she had the hots for Dr. Holcombe, she was pretty smart.”

“I know, I know. He’s old enough to have been her daddy, but there it is. She was always hanging around him, offering to do things for him—put new reeds in his wood-winds, tune his harpsichord, polish his French horn, whatever. She audited all the classes he taught, even went mooning over to his house a couple of times, or so my mom told me.”

“Your mother didn’t say anything about this to us.”

“She wouldn’t. She just waved it off, said it was infatuation, nothing more, and that’s why it didn’t bother her. She saw Dr. Holcombe as being a safe lover who understood his role and could easily be left behind when Erin was ready to hit stardom road. I tried to tell her Erin was gone over Dr. Holcombe, that she’d lie down in front of his car to get his attention, but Mom didn’t buy it. She’d always shake her head and say no, Erin was going to tour the world, nothing would stop her.” Ginger paused, looked at one of the African masks on the opposite wall. “She won’t now, Dix.”

“You think you could be wrong about the depth of Erin’s feelings for Dr. Holcombe?”

“Me? Of course I’m not wrong, I’m a lawyer.”

Ruth laughed, couldn’t help it. “That was good,” she said.

Ginger gave her a gracious nod, but her eyes weren’t at all friendly. “When are you going back to Washington, Agent Warnecki?”

“If I can keep her here, she’s staying until we catch the murderer,” Dix said.

Ginger wasn’t happy with that news. She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. “I heard you found Erin in Winkel’s Cave. I also heard that’s where you’d been, Agent Warnecki. So you think the two men who shot at you killed Erin?”

“Could be. Maybe not.”

“That’s very proficient cop talk, Agent.”

Ruth smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you. I’m very good at it.”

Dix asked, “What else should we know about Erin, Ginger?”

“She was a dream on the violin. Incredible, but you know that.” Then she gave Dix The Look, though he didn’t appear to pick up on it. Instead he frowned down at his short black boots and said, “Did she go out with any guys her own age? Classmates?”

“Nary a one, as far as I know, and believe me, I know everything about Erin because of Mom. When Erin woke up to the guy factor, it was Dr. Holcombe from the get-go.”

Ruth sat forward in her chair. “Did Dr. Holcombe reciprocate her feelings?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Gordon’s dragon, Helen Rafferty. She knows all, and I mean that literally. The word is that she and Dr. Holcombe had a hot thing going maybe five years ago, and he was the one who called it off. Evidently he’s quite a smooth talker, convinced her to stay on as his personal assistant, which indicates to me he’s pretty selfish, and she’s got the self-esteem of a rug. She’d know exactly what his feelings are—were—toward Erin.”

They left ten minutes later to drive out to Chappy’s house for lunch. Ruth said as she buckled her seat belt, “Curiouser and curiouser. What do you think about Erin Bushnell, age twenty-two, in the throes of unrequited passion for Chappy’s brother, a man more than twice her age?”