“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?”
“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
