Ruth rubbed her hands together. “Hurray for Detective Morales. I’m putting him on my Christmas card list.”
Savich said, “Our local field office can give Detective Morales all the help he needs, Dix. They can start at the prison, talk to Dempsey’s girlfriend, track down their associates.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate that. It would save us having to drive over to Richmond ourselves.”
“When would you like us to be here in the morning?”
Dix said, “The boys leave pretty early, so breakfast will be on by dawn. You’re welcome to join us.”
“That was pretty good, Dix,” Ruth said. “Okay, guys, anytime after eight. I’m making scrambled eggs.”
“Oh, I forgot, Dix,” Sherlock said. “You mentioned Dr. Holcombe has a daughter?”
“Yes, her name’s Marian Gillespie, lives in a little bungalow in the Meadow Lake section, teaches music theory and clarinet at Stanislaus. Christie always liked her, said she marches to a different drummer. Yes, you’re right. We should talk to her tomorrow, once we’re done with my uncle.”
Savich asked thoughtfully, “Have you ever noticed anything off between father and daughter, Dix?”
“No,” Dix replied. “Not that I remember.”
DIX’S PHONE RANG a little before six-thirty Thursday morning. He jerked up in bed, afraid it was something bad.
It was. Helen Rafferty had been found dead by her running partner and brother, Dave Rafferty.
CHAPTER 22
WOLF RIDGE ROAD MAESTRO,
VIRGINIA EARLY THURSDAY MORNING
DIX COULDN’T SEEM to stop muttering to himself. He felt like an idiot for not seeing that he’d placed Helen Rafferty in danger. Was she dead because someone knew that she’d spoken to them or was afraid of what she knew?
He and Ruth arrived five minutes after Savich and Sherlock had streaked in, Savich at the wheel of his Porsche. They found Dr. Himple and the Loudoun County forensic team in the bedroom where her brother had found her.
After Dix and Ruth spoke to Dr. Himple, they joined Dave Rafferty in the kitchen with Savich and Sherlock, drinking a cup of black coffee. He was somewhere in his late forties, with a runner’s lean build and thinning light brown hair. His face was covered with stubble since he hadn’t yet shaved. He was badly shaken.
To help ground him, Savich asked, “Mr. Rafferty, what do you do for a living?”
“What? Oh, I teach science at John T. Tucker High School in Mount Bluff. It’s maybe twelve miles from Maestro.”
“Why were you here so early?”
Dave Rafferty motioned to his sweats and running shoes. “Helen and I run three days a week. She didn’t answer the door when I rang at six. I really didn’t think anything about it—you know, she overslept, maybe she was tired. Oh Jesus, I was calling out for her to get her butt out of bed, come on, time’s a-passing, but she couldn’t hear me, couldn’t talk. This is going to bury Mom. She and Helen were so close.”
He swallowed, drank some coffee, and took a deep breath. Sherlock laid her hand on his shoulder, and he raised his head. “When I saw her in bed, I still thought she was sleeping, you know? ‘Hey, lazy bones,
’ I yelled out, ‘you’re done sleeping, Nell. Come on, move your butt.’ But she didn’t move. She was lying on her back, the covers to her waist. She was wearing that blue flannel nightgown. Her eyes were open and she was staring up at me. I tried to wake her, but of course she didn’t move, her eyes just kept staring. Then I saw the marks on her neck. It’s crazy. She never hurt a soul.” He shuddered, dropped his head to his folded arms and sobbed. “She’s dead, dammit, my sister is dead.”
Without hesitation, Sherlock wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rafferty. We’ll find out who did this.” Savich knew she’d take care of things. He, Dix, and Ruth left the kitchen.
Dix was muttering again under his breath. “I’m dumb as that fence post on Moose Hollow Hill. It’s my fault, no one else’s, mine.”
Savich said matter-of-factly, “None of us realized Helen Rafferty was in any danger. You told her not to talk to anyone. You think someone overheard you and Ruth with her in the employee lounge?”
“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.”
