Chappy said, “No, my son isn’t going anywhere, Cynthia.” He turned to Dix and Ruth. “If this harpy won
’t give him a child, she can take off herself as far as I’m concerned, maybe screw Gordon’s brains out on her way out of town.”
“I don’t think Gordon has the time,” Ruth said. “He’s pretty much occupied right now.”
“Twister was never too busy for sex.” Chappy studied his fingernails. “Do you know Gordon can tell you the name of any perfume a woman wears, his nose is that sensitive? Always amazed me.” Chappy shook his head. “Tony’s going to attend that memorial at Stanislaus, said it wouldn’t look good if the local bankers didn’t pay their respects.”
Dix said, “We’re going as well.”
“Well, I’m not. Why should I? Twister will be there, some young sweetie sitting beside him, I’ll bet, holding his hand and squeezing it while he cries. He can cry on demand, which always pissed me off.”
Cynthia said, venom as thick as cream in her voice, “You’ve got to have a heart to cry, Chappy.”
Chappy ignored his daughter-in-law. He said to Dix, “Are you going to take Twister off to jail?”
“We’ll see.”
“If I thought you were serious, I’d get him a lawyer.” Chappy rubbed his hands together. “Twister wouldn’t mind having some deep pockets in the family then, would he? What do you think, Dix? One of those O.J. lawyers? What about that little Shrek guy from Boston? Hmm, I could start checking this out, tell Twister what I’m doing.” Chappy walked from the room whistling. He turned in the doorway and gave Ruth a little wave. “I’m going to find a new vase, maybe Japanese this time. Hey, Agent Ruth, I hear Twister asked you out to dinner. You going to go?”
“Depends on the restaurant,” Ruth said easily.
“Wear pants,” Chappy said. “It’s your best defense.” He strolled past the shards of the ceramic bowl without a glance.
“He’s insane,” Cynthia said. “Really, Dix, the old fool is quite mad. Imagine claiming I’m taking birth control pills when Tony and I are trying to have a baby. Imagine me sleeping with Gordon. Hasn’t Chappy looked at his own son? Tony is very handsome, don’t you think?”
“Handsome and weak?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have said that, but Chappy makes me so mad and I mouth off just to get back at him. The reason he won’t let Tony go is that he’s Chappy’s only ticket to immortality now that Christie’s gone
—” Cynthia shrugged, looked away from Dix.
“She’s not merely gone, Cynthia, as in off finding herself or on an extended vacation. She’s dead. And you know it.”
Cynthia nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose she is.”
“As I said, the two of you should move away from this house and from Chappy.”
“The thing is, I really don’t want to leave Tara. Maybe Chappy will kick off soon and Tony will inherit all this.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I’d give him another twenty years. You and Tony should move to Richmond. Tony could head the bank there, hire a manager for the bank here in Maestro, and let Chappy torment him. When Chappy’s out of the picture someday, you can move back to Tara, if you like.”
Cynthia strolled over to the front windows, pulled back the heavy brocade curtain and looked out. Cold air flooded the room. She closed the window as she said over her shoulder, “Tony’s afraid to leave, afraid he’ll fall on his face if he does, or that Chappy will disinherit him.”
She shrugged. “Christie could have talked him into leaving, but I can’t. I wish she wasn’t dead, Dix, I really miss her.”
“You didn’t appear to appreciate her all that much when she was here, Cynthia. Why the change of heart now?”
“I know better now, I guess.” Cynthia turned away from the window and paced the full length of the twenty- five-foot library before she turned back again. “Are you here for lunch? Mrs. Goss didn’t say anything to me.”
“No, we’re not here for lunch. For one thing, I wanted to ask you some questions about Chappy’s whereabouts last Friday night.”
“Goodness, that was when you found Ruth, wasn’t it? Chappy was here late, that’s all I know. What did he tell you?”
“That he was here, working in his office,” Dix said. “How about Tony? Where was he?”
“Making me a very happy woman, at least after about ten o’clock Friday evening. He was at the bank all day, I suppose. He usually is. He left for a couple of hours after dinner. He didn’t say where he was going and I didn’t ask. When he came back, he had a bottle of champagne under his arm, a big smile on his face. He wanted to be with me right away, so we went upstairs to bed. I remember Chappy was home because he knocked on our bedroom door about eleven o’clock, demanding to know what I was doing to his son. I was glad I’m always careful to lock the door. That wasn’t the first time he did that.”
Dix didn’t think Chappy had been interested in sex since his wife died so many years before. “He probably wanted to give the two of you grief. Tony didn’t tell you where he went after dinner?”
“He probably went back to the bank. He tries to be anywhere his father isn’t. I’d had another fight on the phone with my mother and I was fuming, not really paying attention to anyone.” She yawned. “Fighting with Chappy always exhausts me. Maybe I’ll drive to Richmond, do some shopping; it’ll help me forget.”
“You’re not going to Erin’s memorial?” Ruth asked.
“I really didn’t know her all that well, now did I?” Cynthia yawned and rose.
“I DON’T KNOW why I bother,” Dix said some minutes later as they walked to the Range Rover. “Oh yes, Tony did work late at the bank last Friday evening, according to the security guard, and he was there all day, according to the employees and Tony’s secretary. As for Chappy, Mrs. Goss claims he was gone during the day on Friday, but she doesn’t know where he went. He never explains anything to anyone. I’ll ask him about it directly.”
“Have you heard anything from Richmond about who might have hired Dempsey and Slater to kill me?”
“Not a thing from either the field agents or the Richmond PD. I’ll give Detective Morales a call, maybe promise him you’ll have dinner with him if he comes through. You like Italian, don’t you?”
Ruth grinned. “It’s a toss-up, Dix, between your stew and spaghetti Bolognese.”
ERIN BUSHNELL’S MEMORIAL was held in the large auditorium in Gainsborough Hall. A dozen lavish wreaths were set up around the stage, and a two-by-three-foot color photograph of Erin playing her violin hung from the ceiling. She looked so young, Ruth thought. The auditorium was filled to capacity. Dix would bet every student and professor at Stanislaus was there. Those who couldn’t find seating were huddled against the walls and sitting on the steps in the aisles. He saw a lot of townies, too, sprinkled throughout the auditorium.
He and Ruth got lots of looks, some of them frowns, some tentative greetings. Erin’s parents were a conservative-looking couple, pale and silent, unable, he imagined, to come to grips with their daughter’s violent death. He’d met them, expressed his sympathy, when they first arrived. He had lost his wife, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. He thought of Rafe and Rob, and losing them would be the biggest hit life could dish out.
They would never find out exactly what was done to their daughter, if he could help it. Drugged and stabbed, that was horrible enough without adding the rest. Dix could only hope the half dozen people who knew the truth would never have to let it out.
He spent the memorial studying the faces around him, and knew Ruth was doing the same thing. There were half a dozen eulogies, including a very moving one by Gloria Stanford, and another by Gordon, who looked barely able to control his tears. The Presbyterian minister from Maestro focused on God’s providence and his belief in God’s own justice for Erin, an idea that seemed to resonate with the six-hundred-plus people in the auditorium.
Dix saw Tony and Gloria Stanford sitting on either side of Gordon, Gloria holding his hand. He saw Milton Bean from the Maestro Daily Telegraph.
No one acted unexpectedly. The fact was, Dix felt brain-dead. He was tired of seeing everyone as potential suspects, and though he mourned Erin Bushnell’s passing, he grew tired of hearing her praised beyond what most human beings would justly deserve at the age of twenty-two. He thought of Helen, her body released by the coroner to her brother, who finally agreed to a memorial at Stanislaus the following week, and of old Walt, seemingly not
