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?”
“We need to find out if it was unrequited,” Dix said.
“Maybe what he felt was lust for her talent—the guy might have a thing for talented women, sees himself as a Svengali. No, that doesn’t work. There’s Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant, in the mix.”
Dix said, “Helen Rafferty plays the piano beautifully.”
“Hmm. I wonder what Dr. Holcombe will tell us about this.”
“It’ll be interesting. Chappy told me one of the reasons he calls his brother Twister is that he can wriggle out of anything.”
Ruth looked out the window at the lovely expanse of white pristine snow. Two hawks cruised overhead, their wingspan impressive against the clear blue sky. When she lost sight of them, she said, “If I’ve got this right, Erin Bushnell wasn’t only a brilliant music student at the Stanislaus School of Music, she was also in love with the director and was the best friend of the director’s niece-in-law.”
CHAPTER 19
CHAPPY HOLCOMBE SAT at the head of the spit-polished Chippendale dining table. “Well, how about it, Cynthia, do you think Twister was sleeping with your good friend Erin Bushnell?”
Cynthia Holcombe finished chewing her breadstick, swallowed, and regarded her father-in-law as if he’d made a tacky joke. “No, I don’t,” was all she said. She picked up another breadstick, as if in self-defense.
Chappy waved his fork at his daughter-in-law. “Fact is, I don’t, either. Cynthia, you’re the one I’d swear old Twister wants to sleep with, given all those lusty looks he tosses your way.”
“Dad, please,” Tony said, but his voice was more resigned than angry or embarrassed.
“All right, all right,” Chappy said. “Mrs. Goss, where’s our lunch?”
“Yours is right here, Chappy.” Mrs. Goss, fiftyish, was blessed with striking, heavy black hair she wore loose and curling down her back, like a gypsy. A long bright yellow velvet skirt swished gracefully around her ankles, a peasant blouse, cut low, the final touch. She leaned down to set a platter of shrimp salad at Chappy’s right hand, her cleavage not three inches from his face.
“Looks good,” Chappy said, “even the salad.”
“Control yourself,” Mrs. Goss said and swished back to the kitchen.
“You’re in for a treat, Agent,” Chappy said to Ruth. “Mrs. Goss makes the best shrimp salad in Virginia, and she knows it.”
“That may be,” Cynthia said. “But she should wear an apron over her ridiculous hippie outfits.”
“She’s a gypsy, not a hippie,” Chappy said, annoyance in his dark eyes if not in his voice. “She doesn’t press her bosom in your face, Cynthia, only mine. Otherwise I wouldn’t see any bosoms at all. Leave her alone.”
Mrs. Goss finished serving, seemingly oblivious, and left them to it, her large silver hoop earrings flashing in the sunlight.
“Cynthia, tell me about Erin Bushnell,” Dix said. “Tony said you two were like sisters.”
Cynthia replied calmly, “Tony is out of date. Erin and I got along nicely until she started eyeing my husband. Her death, well, it’s a great shock, as you can imagine, because at one time we were quite close. I still grieve for her.”
Dix said, “So Tony didn’t know how you felt? He saw your grief and believed you and Erin were still as close as before?”
“Erin never came on to me, Cynthia, never,” Tony said.
“I saw her pull you into the moonlight last Tuesday night at that cocktail party Gloria Stanford threw. It was cold that night, but that didn’t stop either of you.”
Tony speared a shrimp on his fork and stared at it. “I don’t even remember that. I’m surprised you noticed, since you were flirting with Uncle Gordon.”
Chappy set his fork on his plate, leaned back in his chair, and laughed until it was the only sound in the dining room. He said to Ruth on a hiccup, “You look shell-shocked, Agent Warnecki. It’s always a circus between the two of them.”
One of Dix’s black eyebrows shot up. “Add you to the mix, Chappy, and we’ve got the wild animal act.”
“Nah, I’m as tame as your little Brewster.”
“Brewster thinks he’s a Doberman.”
Tony asked Dix, “You find out yet who hired those guys to kill Agent Warnecki on Saturday night?”
The question brought the conversation to a halt. Ruth could hear Mrs. Goss humming in the kitchen. Chappy said into the heart of the silence, “Dix probably doesn’t want to talk about it, Tony. Fact is, identifying them may not be possible. I heard the bodies were badly burned. That right, Dix?”
Dix shrugged. “We’ll see. The FBI forensic lab is using their fingerprint recognition program on the partial prints we have. We’re looking for where the men might have come from. We may have something more to go on soon.”
“But you’ve got no leads now, right, Dix?” Chappy asked him.
“Oh, we’re managing to keep busy,” Dix said easily, sitting back and lacing his fingers over his belly. Chappy suddenly said, “Dix, I heard you found poor old Walt McGuffey murdered in his own house. Another shock like that and you’ll have to bury me. Who would want to kill him? Oh, I see. Someone must have thought Walt saw something he shouldn’t since he lives near the other entrance to Winkel’s Cave.”
“That’s possible,” Dix said. “Walt was a fine gentleman, and Christie really loved him. He was devastated when she disappeared.” He didn’t mention finding Ruth’s Beemer in the shed. He turned to Cynthia. “I find it surprising that you and Erin Bushnell were such good friends. I haven’t seen you make friends with any women in town.”
“I grew up with three women at home, Dix,” Cynthia said, “and they were world-class bitches all, if that gives you some idea of why I never bothered. I believed Erin was different, but she wasn’t. Yes, she made a show of affection for Uncle Gordon, but only to throw me off her real objective, which was my own husband. That’s why she spent so much time with me here, at Tara. She wanted to see you, Tony.”
“Or maybe,” Chappy said, voice sly, “both of you had the hots for old Twister.”
“That’s not funny, Chappy. He’s nearly as old as you are,” Cynthia said. “How much longer before you grow up?”
Dix said quickly, “So you think Ginger’s wrong about Erin loving Dr. Holcombe, Cynthia?”
